


A Length of Rope

by Shayna_Nak



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Divergence - Red Wedding, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Female Protagonist, Female Robb, House Lannister, House Stark, Long, Political Alliances, War, War Of The Five Kings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-03
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2018-01-14 09:31:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 33,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1261420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shayna_Nak/pseuds/Shayna_Nak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some people, like Daenerys Targaryen or Joffrey Baratheon, are born to rule, whether to prosperity or to ruin.</p><p>Robyn Stark was never meant to be Queen, but she can make due with what she has.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Length of Rope

**Author's Note:**

> This is the fault of a gifset I literally cannot find again with Holland Roden as girl!Robb. It was a while ago, and the idea just kind of stuck in my head, and over the past few days I wrote this because I wanted to see if I could figure out if I could logically make it work. 
> 
> And then I decided to seriously deviate from canon, but that's not the point.
> 
> Also, [TeamRepairBoy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TeamRepairBoy/pseuds/TeamRepairBoy) made me [this](http://heyrobbstark.tumblr.com/post/82131968876/some-people-like-daenerys-targaryen-or-joffrey) lovely photoset to go with this story, and I think it's wonderful.

Nine months after Ned leaves to fight Robert Baratheon’s Rebellion, Catelyn Stark screams until she has no voice left to scream with.

Her reward is a squirming, bloody red child who Maester Luwin gently cleans and swaddles before placing in her arms. The babe is a girl, not a boy as Catelyn had hoped, but she loves her all the same. She wishes her husband were here, but he’s far away fighting his friend’s war and every day she wonders if she’ll receive a letter notifying her that the rebellion is lost and the Mad King refuses to return his remains. But now she has a child, healthy and not yet an hour old, and she knows he will come home soon.

Outside birds other than ravens twitter and remind her of childhood, running around with Lysa to try and catch those red-breasted, flighty little beasts who fly away too quick for young hands to catch. “What’s will you call her?” the midwife asks.

Catelyn smiles, and the baby quiets. “Robyn,” she answers. “Robyn Stark.”

She hopes the name will bless her daughter with a quickness to escape the world’s harm.

 

 

When Ned returns a month later, he has a child in his arms. It’s a dangerous secret for even his wife to know, but this child could’ve been heir to the throne in another life, the last of his sister he has, and he wants the boy protected from harm.

“He’s not my bastard, though I think it safest to raise him as if he is,” he tells Catelyn, and lays the boy next to his daughter, whose name he has yet to even hear, in the crib. They’re in the nursery with the door barred and the windows shut and he speaks at a whisper. “He’s my nephew _._ ”

His wife was prepared to be angry, and he can understand why, but all fight leaves her in an instant. “He’s Lyanna’s?” she answers. “By—Rhaegar? A Targaryen?”

Glancing down at the two sleeping babes, he says, “She died in childbirth. Her last request was that I keep him safe. Even if Robert decided to keep him alive out of some sign of love for Lyanna, Tywin Lannister ordered all Targaryens to be killed.”

“ _All_ of them?”

“He had even the children butchered in their sleep.”

Though it isn’t the sort of news he would normally like to pass on to anyone, she’ll hear it eventually. Almost heavily, she sits down on the chair by the window and watches the two between the slates in the cradle. “My father always said he was a hard man,” she says. “But killing children in their sleep? That doesn’t even seem human.”

Ned drops to one knee in front of her and takes her hands in his. “I know this needs no saying, but you can speak of this to no one.”

“Of course. I’ll not risk giving Tywin Lannister another babe to slaughter,” she answers, and continues to watch the crib. “I suppose this gives Robb a brother to grow up with.”

 _Robb._ Ned rolls the name around in his head. “That’s not normally a name for a girl,” he says.

With an expression bordering on a smile that’s perhaps hindered by their previous conversation, his wife says, “It’s just a nickname I’ve begun calling her. I’ve named her Robyn, after the birds outside her window the day she was born. Go on, hold her. She’s your daughter.”

For the past month he’s been riding with a child who’s not his son, though he’s named him as such. The day he received word of his daughter’s birth was the day Robert killed Rhaegar and Jamie Lannister stabbed the Mad King in the back. By the time he reached his sister, her child had already been born and she was dying—Ned doesn’t know how old the boy is, in all honesty, and he finds this a little sad.

When he stands, so does Catelyn and when he gathers the small bundle in his arms, she does the same. “What have you named him?” she asks, and Robyn looks up at Ned with sleepy blue eyes so much like her mother’s.

“Jon,” he says, “after Jon Arryn.”

Neither babe cries even as they’re held by a stranger. Robyn smiles a toothless smile and Jon reaches out with a tiny hand, wrapping it around one of Catelyn’s fingers.

He’ll be the only Snow the whole of the North loved by both Lord and Lady, Ned thinks, and is so very glad to be home.

 

 

After Robyn, Catelyn has a series of miscarriages and panics, fearing she’ll never have a son and Winterfell is pass from Stark hands to someone else’s. Ned tries to keep hope, but privately wonders the same, and on his daughter’s second name day, the two of them sit down without their advisors and discuss what to do.

By royal decree, either a bastard or an eldest daughter can be legitimized as a rightful heir, and though this may be difficult for some to achieve, Ned knows he is one of Robert’s closest friends and perhaps they have a chance. “Robb’s a Stark and a Tully,” Catelyn says as they sit on their bed, discussing their options. “If she needs to learn how to fight as well as how to be a lady, she can manage.”

“But we _do_ have a son here,” he says as he tries to weight what might be the safest choice. “The more expected request for rightful heir is him.”

Catelyn catches her bottom lip in her teeth. “There’s already talk of what a generous woman I am, being so kind and fair to my husband’s bastard,” she tells him. “Think of how suspicious it would be if I allowed you to actually name him heir to Winterfell.”

She’s right, of course; Robert might not notice it, but others on his council certainly will. And Ned doesn’t like his friend’s wife. It’s her father that ordered that familial slaughter, after all. “I’m just afraid of what that would do to Robyn,” he says, because it’s truly his main nagging doubt. “She’ll need to put in twice the effort of any other lord or lady to gain respect from other highborn families.”

Being a lord is an awful lot like being a father, he discovered quickly upon actually having children of his own. That’s pressure enough for him and he won a war to gain all the respect he needs. Catelyn says, “Then we’ll just have to teach her how to be the best. And Jon may be a Stark, but Robb’s a true Stark on her father’s side. If Robert won’t grant for her, then try for Jon.”

This, too, is true, though Ned wouldn’t mind getting a royal decree to legitimize Jon as his son and give him the proper surname. “I’ll ride for King’s Landing tomorrow,” he says. “Hopefully by the time I return we will have an heir of Winterfell.”

 

 

Two months after he leaves, Father returns, and sweeps her and Jon up into his arms. “You’re heir of Winterfell,” he says, though she doesn’t know that that means, and kisses her forehead. Then he turns to Jon and says, “And if she has no children, you’re heir after her,” and kisses his forehead too.

After he puts them down and she wiggles closer to Jon, who wiggles closer to her, Father hugs Mother tight. “You legitimized them _both?_ ” she says and Robb asks her brother if he knows what they’re talking about, but he says he doesn’t.

“Robert was drunk,” Father answers. “Laughed loudly and said Robyn would never have kids like that, so I should just hand over Winterfell to Jon after her.”

“But she’s still heir?”

“Yes.” Then he turns and kneels down in front of them, takes her brother by the shoulders. “You know how everyone calls you Snow, Jon?” Father asks and he nods, biting at his nails. “Well, now they’re going to call you Stark like Robb. Do you understand?”

He says he does and Mother and Father let them leave. They escape to the kitchens where the cook is making lemon cakes to see if they can steal a slice.

 

 

Less than a year later Sansa Stark is born and Mother won’t let him call her Lady Catelyn, even though she’s not actually his mother. King Robert comes to visit and laughs, says she’s cursed with girls, and ruffles Jon’s curls. When he goes to fix them, Robb grins and says, “I thought only women were s’posed to love their hair.”

Now they’re both three, nearly four, and only just beginning to understand what Father meant when he said Robb was heir, though Jon doesn’t understand how he can be heir after her. Before he can answer, King Robert says to Father, “Should’ve just legitimized your bastard, Ned. No man’s going to want to marry a female just to stick around and let her have control of the land.”

Mother’s smile doesn’t look very happy right now. “I’m sure something can be arranged, Your Grace,” she answers for Father and then stands, going over to them. “Come along you two, off to bed.”

“But it’s _early_ ,” Robb says, but Mother ignores her and takes both their hands and walks them out of the main hall where the King and Father are still deep in conversation. Father doesn’t look so happy either.

Even though Jon doesn’t understand what that meant, he thinks it must have been mean, and lets himself be led away in silence.

 

 

Theon’s eight when his father rebels and then fails and then finally gives him over to the Starks. “Our own children are a little younger than you,” Lord Stark says when they’re alone and Father is gone forever. A maid here gave him new clothes, which he doesn’t mind because his own were bloody. “Our two oldest are Robyn and Jon, who are four, and our youngest Sansa, who’s just had her first name day a couple of months ago.”

Asha talked a little about the Starks even though they were enemies because she was jealous that a girl could be heir. Now that his brothers are dead, that makes Theon heir, but he’s in Winterfell instead of home. Or what was his home. No one’s telling him much of anything yet, but Father said he isn’t returning to the Iron Islands because he’s the Starks’ ward and didn’t seem too bothered by it. Because Theon’s the youngest, Father never particularly paid attention to him at all.

He doubts it will be any different here where he isn’t even family.

Suddenly Lord Stark says, “Stop lurking you two, I can see you.”

Theon turns and a little girl with bright red hair and a little boy with black curls emerge from the doorway. “Mother said another boy was coming to live with us,” says the girl.

“We just wanted to see him,” says the boy. “And Sansa’s making a fuss again.”

Lord Stark smiles and beckons them closer. “Robb, Jon,” he tells them, “this is Theon of the Iron Islands. Mother is right—he’ll be staying with us from now on.”

Robb. What sort of girl’s name is _Robb?_ Lord Stark said earlier her name was _Robyn_ , but Robb just sounds so…butchered. A lot of people back home said Asha didn’t sound very feminine, but she could beat up almost anyone she heard say it, so they all made sure it keep quiet. “Hello,” he answers, uncomfortable, because he’s eight and these two are four.

Both the children smile and grab at his sleeves. “We’re playing hide and seek,” says Robyn. “Come with us. Father, can he come with us?”

“If Theon wants to, then yes.”

No, he doesn’t, not particularly, but he’s stuck here from now on and decides to accept his fate. “Show me where,” he says, and thinks that if he plays along maybe life will be easier.

 

 

By the time Robyn and Jon are eleven, Catelyn has five children (she includes her nephew) and if the missed bleeding of the past two months is any indication, a sixth on the way. None of their children have arrangements for marriage yet, though she knows at least Robyn will need one soon, and she and Ned are on the balcony watching as she, Jon, and Theon practice their weaponry in the yard when she first notices it. Jon’s using a sword against a straw man while Theon shows Robb a better technique for archery.

“I think King Robert was wrong about never being able to find our eldest daughter a husband,” Catelyn says as Theon positions himself behind Robb, who has a very Sansa-like smile, and Jon glares. “We’ve already said countless times how we don’t want Theon to have to return to Lord Balon.”

Fathers, she found, were not always as good to their children as Ned, but there was something about Greyjoy’s treatment of his youngest son that always bothered her in a way she couldn’t quite place. Perhaps it’s the mother in her, but she doesn’t like seeing children ill-treated.

Ned says nothing for a moment, just watches as Robb looses an arrow that hits the center of the target, before he answers, “I can’t imagine anyone complaining.”

“Except maybe Jon.”

“What?”

As she points, Jon looks away, but his hits to the straw man are definitely harder. He and Robb, now that they’re older, manage to find a way to fight about almost anything, but there’s no doubt in Catelyn’s mind that they love each other. Ned’s laugh is closer to a snicker. “I’d fear for the life of anyone who tried to harm either of them,” he says, and Robb shakes Theon off to try for herself. Jon visibly relaxes. “Whoever we arranged her with would need to be careful not to hurt her. There might not be a better match than Theon.”

When Robb’s shot misses the center by several inches, Catelyn thinks it might be on purpose.

“We’ll talk to them tonight,” she says, and Ned immediately agrees.

 

 

The day after the Starks announce that he and Robb are to be married, Theon finds himself slammed up against while going for a walk in the godswood. Considering that Jon is only eleven, this is rather impressive.

“If you hurt her,” he starts, but Theon just sighs and says, “You’ll kill me. I know, I know. Do you really think I’d ever do anything?”

Jon doesn’t answer for a moment, but he does lower her sword. “I mean it, Greyjoy,” he says and stalks off.

The sad part is that Theon _knows_ he does.

 

 

Once her fourteenth name day has passed and she still hasn’t bled, Robyn goes and finds her mother. “What if there’s something wrong with me?” she asks because even though bleeding is apparently very unpleasant, she can’t be considered a woman and rule Winterfell or marry Theon without it. “What if I’m—defective, or something of the like?”

Mother pulls her into a hug. “There’s nothing wrong with you,” she answers and Robb feels pathetic that she’s really this worried about it. “Some women get it later than others.”

But that’s just it, isn’t it? Right now she’s still only a _girl_ , not a woman. “But everyone else I know who’s my age has it already,” she says. “And everyone’s going to know about it because I won’t be getting married.”

“You’re an a female heir. An unusual circumstance,” Mother says, tone sharp, which means Robb is supposed to listen. “There are a lot of reasons why you might not be entering a marriage immediately. No one needs to know.”

“So there _is_ something wrong with me?”

Mother releases her and gently touches her cheek. “There’s nothing wrong with you,” she says again. “I know for a fact your late aunt didn’t bleed until she was sixteen.”

No one ever really talks about Lyanna, so Robb’s not surprise Mother didn’t mention it until now. Still, hearing it comes as a relief. “So I still have time?”

“Yes, you still have time.”

Now that she knows she isn’t some sort of freak, she’s able to enjoy her name day feast as well as any year. A few people quietly question Mother and Father about when the wedding will be and they make excuses for the delay. At one point Arya and Sansa get into a fight, which Jon breaks up, and Robb takes Theon’s hand under the table.

 

 

She finally bleeds when she’s sixteen, and the date for the marriage ceremony is set for six months later not long after her seventeenth name day. All of Winterfell is in an uproar about it and Arya thinks it’s ridiculous that she’s excited, but Sansa and Mother help her design the dress. King Robert sent a raven saying they should be married in the capital, but Father declined, saying the heir of North should be married in the North. Despite this, the royal family agrees to come.

Then Lord Arryn, Hand of the King, dies, and the reason for the visit changes. The beautiful dress Sansa helped her design gathers dust in her wardrobe and a deserter of the Night’s Watch claims he saw Wight Walkers roaming free.

But then Jon drops the worst of it by saying, “I’m going with Uncle Benjen to Wall after the royal family leaves.”

Grey Wind and Ghost, who are just about the only good things to come out of the past two weeks, roll around together on the floor and she tears her eyes away from them to stare at her brother. “ _Why?_ ” she asks, genuinely confused because winter is coming so why go where it’s worse? “Jon, you can’t! Why are you leaving me?”

Even though it’s selfish to say _me_ and not _us_ , she doesn’t care because he was hers before they had anyone else, back before the Iron Island Rebellion was even an idea to speculate upon and Mother thought she wouldn’t be able to have any other children. They fight and they fight often but she’s heard of the number of people who die out there on the Wall; she wants him safe in Winterfell. Apparently he doesn’t share her sentimentality, though, because he says, “It’s different for me than it is for you, Robb. I bare your name, but behind my back people still call me Jon Snow. You’ll have children with Theon. And if you don’t, Winterfell will pass to Bran.”

“Mother _agreed_ to have you named Stark,” Robb says. “What does it matter what people think? And I’d take you as ruler of Winterfell over Bran any day.”

“Robb, he’s only ten.”

She reaches down to pick up Ghost, causing both direwolves to whine in protest, before dropping the pup into her brother’s arms. “I need to get ready for the King’s arrival,” she says, and Grey Wind runs circles around her legs. “I think you should go.”

“Robb—”

“Jon, just get out.”

Whatever he goes to say gets trapped in his throat and he turns to leave, shutting the door quietly behind him without so much as an apology. Robb lies back on her bed, staring up at the high ceiling, and tries not to cry.

 

 

This is the problem with the Stark heir: not only is she a woman, but she’s also incredibly beautiful. Her father was almost cruel, doing this to her. Cersei hasn’t pitied anyone like this in years.

She speaks to the girl once, when it’s late and the feast is dwindling, and Lady Robyn has just given the Greyjoy boy a kiss goodnight as the bastard’s wolf growled at the two of them. “Your brother doesn’t approve?” Cersei asks when she nears because the feast itself was just so dreadfully dull.

The heir of Winterfell is smaller than she is and considerably smaller than her own sister, though with the same wild orange hair and blue eyes that don’t carry much resemblance to the rest of the Starks. Like the child Sansa, she doesn’t look as if she belongs in the North. She has too much color in her. And yet somehow this small, beautiful girl is supposed to take charge of a region and, by that extension, its army.

It’s funny, really, life’s little tragic jokes.

“Jon wouldn’t approve of anyone. Theon isn’t special in that regard,” Lady Robyn answers, and twirls her hair around her finger. “They used to get along until my parents decided I should marry Theon instead of some lord I’ve never met.”

Oh, yes. The marriage. “I’m terribly sorry about the wedding, Lady Stark,” Cersei says. “You two seem close.”

When the girl answers, “We are,” she’s actually smiling and she’s one in a million in more ways than just her unusual status. Then again, the Stark parents are so hopelessly in love it’s sickening, so perhaps it runs in the family. It will most likely end with Sansa, of course, if she marries Joffrey. “Father wanted us married before winter came. I suppose there’s a little time.”

What a pretty little fool. She must realize by now that Robert is here to ask Ned Stark to be Hand. Winter is unlikely to creep along slow enough for them to last the year, which is when the King will release him for a short time to attend a wedding. Still. There’s no need to destroy some young girl’s dream at this hour.

Feigning exhaustion, Cersei says, “Well, I think it’s time I tuck away for the night. But before I go, let me give you a little advice about brothers and husbands.”

“Yes?”

“If you’re hoping for the two of them to get along again, prepare yourself for disappointment,” she tells her, “because brothers will do anything to make sure their sisters remain unharmed.”

Lady Robyn is confused when she agrees and Cersei leaves her standing alone in the hall. If Ned consents to be Hand, then she’ll act in his stead here in Winterfell—this beautiful, colorful, cursed young fool.

Cersei won’t be surprised if she’s the death of the North and for that, she pities her deeply.

 

 

Bran falls, Father is to be Hand, and before he leaves, Jon hugs his sister so tightly she disappears in his furs. “I’m still mad at you for leaving,” she tells him as she pulls away and they both pretend her eyes are only wet from the cold. “And I don’t care about the Night Watch’s rules, when Theon and I marry next year, I will get a royal order if I have to get you back down here.”

Jon laughs because he doesn’t doubt her and if his eyes are wet, then it’s because of the cold, too. “I wouldn’t miss your wedding for the world. Not when you could kill me ten ways to winter,” he answers, which gets her to smile. “Robb, you have Theon. And you have Mother and Rickon. When he wakes, you’ll have Bran.”

“I won’t just be here as a daughter,” she says and even though she’s angry and not crying, of course, because neither is he, she helps him saddle his horse. “I’ll be in charge of the North—all of it. What if no one takes me seriously?”

Even though they’ve talked about this before, he knows she worries. In a way, he does too. “Everyone in Winterfell loves you,” he says. “I’m sure the rest will, too. Our parents made the right choice.” After all, a Stark should be in charge of the North, not a bastard who just happens to bear the name out of some streak of unusual luck.

“You’ll have to go celibate.”

“I don’t mind. Whole North knows you’re the only lady for me, Robb.”

The scowl on her face is terribly undignified, but fades fast before she says, “Next time I see you, you’ll be all in black.”

And he doesn’t quite smile when he answers, “It always was my color.”

They say goodbye and he presses one last kiss to the top of her head. He doesn’t tell her that before he began talk of the Wall, he overheard Mother and Father speaking of arranging a marriage for him, too. He’s a bastard, whether he holds the name Stark or not; no wife needs that sort of embarrassment.  

Robb walks away before he even makes a move to get on his horse.

 

 

Though Catelyn is worried for Bran, she does still manage a thread of insult for her daughter when Maester Luwin comes to her. Despite being Ned’s wife, it’s Robb who’s replacing the figure of Lord of Winterfell. For now, she can only be a guiding hand.

When Robb enters to say she’ll make the appointments, Maester Luwin’s face pales when he realizes his mistake.

Catelyn has complete faith that her daughter can do this. If only Robb believed the same.

 

 

“You don’t need to worry about me going anywhere,” Theon says the night Lady Catelyn leaves and suddenly it’s just the youngest two and them. “Where you go, so do I.”

It’s late, and they’re both only in their night clothes. In the moonlight even her red hair looks cold. Somewhere along the way the North froze the sea right out of him and he blames her for that. “We were supposed to be married by now,” she says, and leans back against him. There’s no one to tell them they’re indecently close. “When did that become a murder, a murder attempt, and the number of Starks in Winterfell falling down to three? One of which is still sleeping.”

Unsurprisingly, it’s the Lannisters’ fault. Neither Lord nor Lady _ever_ spoke fondly of the family and they’ve all heard the story of what the father did to the Targaryen children. “Have you ever heard what the other highborn Northerners call you?” he asks. “They say you’re the Young Wolf. If anything happens—anything at all—all those bannermen will rally behind you.”

“Rally behind _both_ of us,” she answers in the same annoyed tone she used to use on Jon. “I _will_ marry you, Theon Greyjoy, even if it kills me.”

“Oh, don’t say that, Robb. A marriage is no fun if we’re dead.”

He kisses her then, chasing her laughter, and he hopes to gods old and new that her words never become truth.

 

 

After Bran wakes, Robb doesn’t care that he’s a cripple; she pulls him into his arms and almost wishes she never had to let go.

 

 

Sansa’s never been in a place where she hasn’t been constantly compared to her sister, even though it was never out loud. She knows Arya feels the same, but they aren’t talking. After all, she ruined everything and now they’re fighting like _she’s_ the one whose direwolf was killed, not sent away so Sansa’s had to be used as a replacement.

Lady’s death aches somewhere deep inside her that she doesn’t want to think about.

After speaking with Arya, Father comes to find her and asks her how she likes King’s Landing. “It’s beautiful,” she answers immediately. “And warm.”

“We’ll be going back in a year’s time,” he says. “That’s the soonest that King Robert’s relieved me of duty for your sister’s wedding.”

At this rate, Sansa will be married before Robb. Everyone spent so long comparing them because her sister is beautiful and marrying someone she loves and ruling Winterfell by right even though the Starks have Jon and Bran and Rickon. Now Sansa will be Queen of Westeros. Maybe they can have a double wedding, be married together.

It hasn’t been long, but her heart aches for her family as well. When she said goodbye, there were snowflakes melting in Robb’s hair. She insisted her eyes were only tearing from the cold.

 

 

At supper, Benjen finds him sitting away from the rest of the group. “You can always go back you know,” he says, putting down his place and dropping into his seat. “No one would blame you.”

“Yes they would,” he answers immediately, and tears off a portion of his bread. “I broke a marriage agreement for this.”

He’d heard rumor of the girl he was to be wed to, that she was beautiful but also that she was cunning and he had enough with cunning girls in his life. Arya is, and Sansa is growing into it though she didn’t seem to realize it yet, and Robb more than anyone he knows. Their parents had to raise her to be the best of the best.

Benjen says, “Your brother’s awake. Your sister’s in charge of the whole of the North with marriage put off. No one would blame you.”

There’s another reason he doesn’t want to go now, too—he thinks his sister can do it, truly, and maybe coming back will look like he plans to take charge with her as just a figurehead. No, he can’t do that to her. Not unless he’d listened at the very beginning. “I’m staying,” he says, and hopes there’s conviction in his voice.

Though he doesn’t look convinced, Benjen tells him, “You better decide quick, Jon. It won’t be long until you say your vows.”

Maybe not, and maybe he’ll have to come to a decision soon. But soon means not yet and for now he thinks he can hold out forever.

 

 

It’s night, but Robb takes her frustrations out on a straw man with her sword and Grey Wind lying at her feet. All her attacks lack her usual technique and by the end, she’s lost her speed and she can barely breathe.

That’s how Theon finds her and puts his hand on her shoulder. “Something happened,” he says. “You can’t say that’s nothing.”

No, no she can’t. She never could get away with that with him, or with Jon, or even with Sansa most days. “It’s Bran,” she says, and tucks her loose hair behind her ears. On normal occasions she keeps it back when training, but she was too frustrated to take the time to braid. “He’s finally healthy enough to use his voice. And he asked me about his legs, so I told him the truth. And you know what he said to me? That he’d rather be dead.”

Theon twists her around and pulls her into a hug. “He won’t mean it forever,” he says and she still can’t figure out when her life turned into this. “He just needs to learn it isn’t all bad.”

“Everyone’s gone. He was always closer to Jon than he was to me and he left too.”

So did Mother and Father and Sansa and Arya and she and Theon never decided if she would be a Greyjoy or he a Stark. Her family has already broken so many rules that what’s one more? “You’re his sister,” Theon says. “That means he loves you too.”

Somehow, that still sounds like a lie.

 

 

Before he leaves to find the brothel, Tyrion says, “By the way, Lady Stark, your brother at the Wall has a message for you.”

She looks as regal as his dear sister sitting there, though her cheekbones are not nearly as fabulous, and he thinks that perhaps the reason her mother isn’t here is because of some sort of test to prove her daughter can do it. That strikes him as the sort of the thing the Starks would do and stress would the explain his cold welcome. “What is it?” she asks and she looks tense, though it’s difficult to tell with her small body drowning in furs like that.

“He wanted me to tell you that he has not had a single challenge in swordplay since he got there,” Tyrion answers, “and he hopes you don’t hate him too much to deny him one when he returns for the wedding.”

Lord Greyjoy laughs and she manages a smile, and neither reaction is one a lord or lady would normally have, but during his last visit Tyrion came to realize that the North was a little odd in its mannerisms at times. “Thank you for the message, My Lord,” she says when she gets her smile under control. “I’ll make sure he regrets that.”

What a charming little place Winterfell is, even with its cold welcome and even colder wind. Maybe he’ll even come back to visit one day.

 

 

Scrubbing _tables._ He’s the only one who came here with a preexisting knowledge on how to fight with close to any form of weaponry and Thorne has him _scrubbing tables._

Then again, it could be worse, he thinks. He could be scrubbing them alone. Of course, this isn’t particularly a conversation he wants to have with Sam or any other man here, but at least everyone else knows. “What’s my name?” he says, leaning back against the table and stopping his cleaning momentarily because at least in this context, this is important.

Sam’s brow furrows with confusion. “Jon Stark.”

“Yes, it is,” he says, “but I wasn’t born with the name Stark. King Robert granted me with the name when he granted my sister Robyn Stark heir of Winterfell. I was born Jon Snow. Why?”

The confusion is, quite abruptly, gone. “Because you’re a bastard from the North,” Sam answers, and sounds decidedly surprised. Most people are if they don’t already know.

With a nod, he tells his friend, “I never met my mother. I call Catelyn Stark ‘Mother’ because that’s what I grew up with, but I never met my real one. My parents won’t even tell me her name. I don’t know if she’s living or dead. I don’t know if she’s a noblewoman, or a fisherman’s wife, or a whore.” He doesn’t mention that, in a very small, terrible way, he doesn’t care because he doesn’t _want_ another mother. “So I sat there in the brothel as Ros took off her clothes, but I couldn’t do it ‘cause all I could think was ‘what if I got her pregnant?’ She’d have a child—a bastard named Snow. Everyone always likes to tell me how lucky I am, and I know it. But growing up like a traditional bastard? That’s no life for a child.”

It’s not often he lays his thoughts bare like this. Even to Robb, who he fights with constantly but is still his best friend as well as his sister, would never truly understand if he tried to explain it. Not when she has so many expectations of her own and used to work so hard she wouldn’t sleep some nights, or she’d train until her hands bled. She came to him as a sister would to a brother because even when they found out he was a Snow and not really a Stark, she never saw reason to let it change the way she thought of him.

For a moment, Sam does nothing. Then he says, “So you didn’t know where to put it,” with a smile and Jon is so, so profoundly relieved he didn’t make a big deal of the matter that he actually laughs.

Thorne, of course, does not approve.

 

 

After the tournament is long over and Sansa is supposed to be asleep, she sits up with Arya and breaks the promise she made only hours earlier.

“I don’t understand how anyone could do that,” Arya says with a frown after Sansa tells the horrible story of the Mountain and the Hound. “I’m starting to think our family is the only good family in all of Westeros.”

Sansa shoves her shoulder. “Don’t say that,” she tells her. “If anyone hears you, you’ll get in trouble.”

With a frown still on her face, Arya answers, “Well, it’s _true._ None of us would ever do that to each other and all Robb and Jon ever do is fight.”

She has a point, Sansa will give her that. Knights were supposed to be honorable and good, but the Hound and the Mountain aren’t. The Knight of Flowers is, though, she thinks, and looks at the rose. Loras Tyrell. “I want to visit High Garden one day,” she says, eyes still focused on the rose.

“It’s so far south. You’d hate it once you realized it never got cold.”

“I wouldn’t mind it,” Sansa says. “I like it _here_. It doesn’t feel like winter is coming.”

“That doesn’t mean it won’t.”

She shrugs. “I’d like it put it off as long as I can, though.”

“I miss them,” Arya says.

“Yeah,” Sansa answers. “So do I.”

They stay quiet for a while until, eventually, they fall asleep that way. Regardless of what she said, part of Sansa really does miss the cold.

 

 

Taking charge of Winterfell is officially the most difficult thing Robb has ever done. Now that Mother’s gone as well as Sansa and Arya, she’s taking over her duties as well. So when she’s not dictating decisions to the people of her land who come to her their times of hardship, she’s singing Rickon to sleep because that’s what Mother did, or she’s taking Bran out for a ride or bringing him for a walk into the godswood to prove his life hasn’t ended just because he lost the use of his legs. As a woman, her parents always raised her to be twice the lady as any lady and twice the lord of any lord. She hadn’t realized that at the same time she took her proper position as heir that she’d also suddenly have to act as a mother and father as well.

Now she’s sitting with Theon in the woods, watching Bran smile as his horse gallops around the clearing because he doesn’t know about what happened in King’s Landing yet. “When’re you going to tell him?” Theon asks.

“Not now,” she answers because he doesn’t need to know.

Theon, though, has been stormy ever since they found out and isn’t as good at hiding it as she is. “Blood for blood,” he says. “You need to make the Lannisters pay for Jory and the others.”

Oh, she does not want to think about this. Not after sending men to one of the smaller villages further north to take care of a wildling problem. “You’re talking about war.”

“I’m talking about justice.”

Bran cheers with glee at being able to ride. “Only Lord of Winterfell can call the bannermen to war,” she says and it feels strange to say because, by right, that’s _exactly_ what she is, even if she doesn’t feel it.

Normally she and Theon don’t fight, but he looks at her as though she’s being ridiculous. Then he says, “Jamie Lannister put a spear through your father’s leg,” and she knows that neither of them are making the most sensible of suggestions right now. “The Kingslayer rides for Casterly Rock where no one can touch him—”

“You want me to march on Casterly Rock?”

“You’re not a little girl anymore, Robb,” Theon answers. “They attacked your father, they already started the war. It’s your duty to represent your House when your father can’t.”

She almost snaps that it isn’t his House, so it isn’t his decision, but it _should_ be his House by this point and the only reason they aren’t married is because of the Lannisters. “Theon, I can’t, not on top of everything here,” she tells him and feels awful to admit it. “We should be patient and see if the King does something first. Ser Jamie’s a member of the King’s Guard, but Father’s the Hand. I just—I don’t know if I can do anything else.”

For a moment, Theon doesn’t say anything. Then he asks, “Do you see Bran?”

It’s too quiet, she realizes abruptly, and stands because she should have noticed immediately. “Go in the opposite direction and circle around,” she tells him, drawing her sword, because something about this feels _off_ and she should have noticed. Why didn’t she notice? “Just in case.”

She finds Bran with a group of wildlings and kills her first man. The second man’s holding her brother and she’s got the girl by the hair. “Drop your sword,” he says, but then there’s Theon’s ever perfect arrow through his heart, so his words don’t matter anyway.

Leaving Theon to deal with the wilding woman, Robb drops to her knees by her brother, lifting him up so he’s sitting against her because she doesn’t have the height to put him back on his horse. “I’m so sorry, Bran, I should have been paying attention,” she says, and ghosts her fingers over the edge of his cut pants. Her hand is shaking, but he doesn’t mention it. “Are you all right?”

Bran doesn’t look angry when he answers, “Yes, it doesn’t hurt,” and she twists around to look at Theon who holds his arrow in line with the wilding woman’s head. What would Father do?

“Tough little lad,” he says, and he’s smiling. “What do we do about her, Robb?”

When the wildling woman begs for her life, she does so on her knees. Though her party tried hurt Bran, Robb says, “We’ll keep her alive,” because that’s what Father would do.

Or at least that’s what she thinks he would, anyway, and the fact that she doesn’t know for sure is what scares her the most.

 

 

“Robyn, stop.”

It’s not every day he calls Robb by her full name and that’s enough to get her to finally look at him after a full half hour of just staring forlornly out the window. “I’m not doing anything,” she says, and tucks her hands underneath her knees.

These nights are cold now, and she claimed he doesn’t have nearly enough furs on his bed and they were supposed to be married anyway by now, so they’ve taken to sharing her room at night. For most people marriage means shifting at least a house if not a whole region and for them it always would have meant a simple changing of rooms. Sometimes Theon wonders what his life would have ended up as if the Starks hadn’t decided to betroth the two when she was eleven and he fifteen.

He never wonders how his life would have ended up had he stayed in the Iron Islands.

“Yes, you are,” he says and stands because he’ll pick her up and carry her over here if he has to instead of leaving her out in the cold like that. “You’re thinking.”

“I’m in charge of the North, Theon. I’m supposed to be thinking.”

Outside the window rattles through the trees and bangs against the glass. Winterfell isn’t as windy as it was by the sea. “Just because the ceremony was postponed doesn’t mean you have to do everything yourself.”

When she starts to protest, he decides enough is enough and that she’s in perfect carrying position anyway, so he scoops her up in his arms as easily as he did when she was seven and scraped her knee while chasing after Jon. “As Lady of Winterfell, I order you not to do this,” she tells him, but by the time she finishes speaking he’s already dropping her on the bed. “Theon!”

“If we were in the Iron Islands, I’d take you out to the sea,” he says as he comes down next to her. “We’d be so far out we couldn’t see the land anymore, not even on the horizon, and it would put things in perspective for you. In the type of boat we would have to us, it takes two people to row.”

“Father took care of everything himself.”

“Your mother did at least half of what you do, too.”

With a sigh, she rolls on her side so they’re eye to eye. Theon can’t remember at what point she stopped being his surrogate younger sister. “I would’ve lost Bran today if it weren’t for you,” she says and her thin fingers tangle in the fur. “Is it ever too strange for you that we’re staying in the North instead of taking over the Iron Islands?”

“Winterfell became my home a long time ago.” The cold froze the sea right out of him and he thinks his father wouldn’t want him anymore in the first place. “Perhaps this means we get both.”

When she shuts her eyes, at least some of the tension has left her shoulders, which means some has left his as well. If she’s stressed, then he is and if both of them are stressed, so are Bran and Rickon, and if all of them are in this state, any Winterfell official close to them are also worried. It’s a problematic cycle. “I wouldn’t mind that,” she says. “I want to see it one day.”

“The sea?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll take you there.”

In his dreams, he sees waves and ships and himself teaching the Starks how to sail. No one from his own family is present and Robb is wearing her wedding dress.

He prefers it this way.

 

 

Sam finds him while he’s writing his letters to Robb and Mother in Winterfell and Father in King’s Landing. “Your uncle could be back before these even reach your family,” his friend says. “Is this really a smart idea?”

Without looking up, he answers, “Most likely not. But my family needs to know.”

Finding Uncle Benjen’s horse with no rider felt like the beginning of something terrible and they may not be twins, but he thinks he and his sister are close enough that she’ll be able to feel it too. Despite the feeling not being a good one, she deserves to know. Sam says, “Aren’t you supposed to be temporarily relieved from duty anyway, Jon? Perhaps you should wait until then.”

Most men of the Night’s Watch are never relieved of duty, even temporarily. But most men of the Night’s Watch aren’t the son of Ned Stark. “No,” he answers. “Right before her last wedding she received news of a death and it was held off for an entire year. She’s not yet eighteen. I can’t do that to them.”

He doesn’t say it, but she and Theon had been so excited too, though the other boy tried to keep it hidden. Sam said he missed girls, but he didn’t grow up with sisters older and younger; even smart, pretty girls are infuriating.

“I’m sure your uncle will be fine,” Sam says, and Jon can almost admire his optimism.

 

 

Jon almost doesn’t take the black in order to return and help at Winterfell.

He doesn’t tell a soul.

 

 

Even though Cersei never spared much thought to Robyn Stark, when she did it was always accompanied with that small twinge of pity. She never felt the same for Sansa, who would be Queen—a background figure to a much better, stronger King than Robert—whether she was liked or not. She’s a pretty little fool like her sister is, but not quite in the same way because she doesn’t believe she’ll ever be able to demand the respect to take charge of anything. Queens have power, but never in the public eye.

So Cersei has Sansa write her dear sister a letter requesting fealty despite their father’s treason.

“What will happen?” Sansa asks.

Cersei feels the eyes of everyone else when she answers, “That depends on your sister. And on you.” She hands over the quill.  

She makes it sound as reasonable as she can while keeping it intimidating enough for the girl to know this is not a matter to be taken lightly. After the younger child leaves, her advisors assure her that she did an excellent job.

Robyn Stark will accept reluctantly but without trouble. Of this, Cersei is sure.

 

 

When Maester Luwin hands her the letter from King’s Landing, Robb scarcely believes it. “Treason?” she says in surprise, because Father is the most honorable man she’s ever met, which is a difficult title to live up to with Jon as his son. “Sansa wrote this.”

As the old man says, “It is your sister’s hand, but the Queen’s words,” Theon puts his hand on her shoulder. “You’re summoned to King’s Landing to swear fealty to the new King.”

Anger, on normal occasions, is not much of an issue for her, but she feels it bubble in her throat. “Joffrey puts my father in chains and now he wants his ass kissed?”

“This is a royal command, My Lady,” Maester Luwin says and Theon’s grip tightens. “If you weren’t to obey—”

“I won’t refuse. His Grace summons me to King’s Landing, I’ll go to King’s Landing.” She crumbles the paper in her hands before glancing up at her should-be husband because this is another wedding they’ll have to cancel. Then she adds, “But not alone. Call the banners.”

Even though she can’t see him, she can nearly feel Theon’s smile. “All of them?” Maester Luwin asks.

“They’ve all sworn to defend my father, have they not?”

With a nod, he answers, “They have,” and she tries not to wonder if he doubts they’ll stay loyal because she lacks a few parts between her legs.

It’s a loaded truth in more way than one when she says, “Now we’ll see what their words are worth.”

The old man leaves, doubt still written across his face, though thinly veiled, and Theon sits, pulling her down with him. By this point they’ve had two cancelled weddings and no one cares if they have the occasional act of indecency. “You’re afraid,” he says, and it isn’t a question.

She looks down at her shaking hands. “I must be.”

“Good.”

“Why is that good?”

To her surprise, he kisses her public, even though no one is around.

“It means you’re not stupid,” he answers and Robb thinks she’s never been so scared in her life.

 

 

When Catelyn’s given the letter, she swears she sees red. Before she can even form the thought to think of doing so, she marches up to see her sister, uncaring of whatever Lysa is doing. “You’ve had this since dawn?” she asks, struggling her hardest not to yell.

Lysa stares at her as though she’s stupid for her anger. “They sent it to me, not you. I’ve only shown it to you as a courtsey.”

By the—uncaring now for her raised voiced, she says, “A courtsey? My husband has been taken prisoner, my daughter intends to declare war—”

“A war?” her sister cuts in. “Your daughter against the Lannisters? I know you tried to raise her to be perfect, but no one really is, Catelyn. You should go to her, teach her patience.”

Catelyn knows they pushed Robb too hard at times, but the only possible way to make her any angrier now is to bring up the way she raised her children. She’s so tired of people saying it behind her back, but she doesn’t need her sister saying it too. “Ned rots in a dungeon and you speak of patience?” she answers. “He is your brother by law. Does family mean nothing to you?”

“Family means everything to me and I will not risk Robin’s life—” After Robb was born, she and Ned somehow managed to forget to tell Lysa anything but their daughter’s nickname and by complete coincidence they ended up calling their children by the same name. “—to get caught up in another one of your husband’s war.”

Never, _never_ was one of these wars Ned’s. Every single one of them was Robert’s. The child says, “I’m hungry,” and begins to untie his mother’s gown.

And Lysa has the audacity to say _Catelyn_ raised her daughter incorrectly.

Her sister sends her son away and denies assistance of her knights. Tyrion Lannister may have tried to kill Bran, but he had not lied when he said Lysa had changed, and Catelyn doesn’t like it.

 

 

After the incident with the Wight Walker, Mormont begins speaking to him again.

“I’ve met a lot of bastards here at the Wall,” he says as he gets them both some wine to drink, “but I’ve never seen a single one of them react quite like you. And that’s not to say any of them like it.”

If Thorne had kept his mouth shut his first day here, no one would know he _was_ a bastard. He can’t believe that’s even a question. “Catelyn Stark may not be my mother by blood,” he answers, “but she’s still my mother. It doesn’t matter who my blood mother is. In the eyes of my family, I’m no bastard.”

Mormont takes a large gulp of wine and the burn on Jon’s hand hurts. “Lady Robyn will now have to deal with the treason of your father,” he says. “Bastard or not, the wedding between her and Greyjoy is once again postponed. I’m sorry, Lord Stark, but there’s no relieving you from duty.”

To Jon’s great displeasure, Thorne has a tendency to call him Lord Snow when he’s angry. “I need sleep,” he says, and stands. Today is a not a day to follow rules and wait for orders. “I will bring your breakfast in the morning.”

“Don’t think of running away, Jon. You’re no use to anyone without a head.”

Robb would protect him from any broken laws. He knows this with absolute certainty and he thinks the other man knows it too.

 

 

With the exception of perhaps Jon when they were children, Theon can understand Robb better than anyone. Surrounded by all these men the way she is, he expects her to nervous or even afraid, as well hidden as it would be, but there’s not a trace of anything but sheer determination on her face. The amount of focus is almost inspirational.

None of the lords can agree on anything, which can only be expected, though they’re much more agreeable than they are in the Iron Islands. Lord Umber is saying, “For thirty years, I’ve been making corpses out of men, girl,” which gets Robb’s back to tense. “You want me leading the vanguard.”

“Gilbert Glover will lead the van,” Rob tells everyone, which only angers all the men who care further.

And by “other men,” Theon really only means Lord Umber. “The bloody Wall will melt before an Umber marches behind a Glover. _I_ will lead the van.” For not the first time this evening, he wonders if all the lords would protest this much against this if the one sitting in her place were Jon, though he would never admit it. The North calls her the Young Wolf, and it’s time to prove they don’t mean it as a joke. “Or I will take my men and march them home.”

Robb untangles their fingers, which had been joined under the table as to be hidden from view, and crosses them in front of her. “You’re welcome to do so, Lord Umber,” she says and if he were equal Lord of Winterfell as he was supposed to be by now, he would help, but he’s stuck. Standing, she continues, “And when I am done with the Lannisters, I will march back north, root you out of your keep, and hang your for an oath breaker.”

“Oath breaker?” Umber stands as well, knocks his plate off the table, and Theon joins the others on his feet, hand resting on the handle of his sword. “I won’t sit here and swallow insults from a child so green she didn’t come of age until sixteen.”

If Theon could have killed him, he would have because Umber goes to draw a sword of his own, but Grey Wind gets him first. There’s a scream, a growl, and when the men stands, he’s missing a finger. Robb’s cheeks are so red no one can blame it on candlelight, but she manages to compose herself enough to say, “My Lord Father taught me it was death to bear steel against your liege. Doubtless, the Greatjon only meant to cut my meat for me.”

Lord Umber kicks his bench out of the wall, probably from the pain of nearly losing a hand. “Your meat,” he says, only angry for a moment before he breaks into a laugh, “is bloody tough.”

The blush fades from Robb’s cheeks, but her laugh is forced and Theon hopes he’s the only he notices.

 

 

Before Robb can stand to leave, Bran asks, “What did Lord Umber mean when he said you didn’t come of age until sixteen?”

His sister’s face turns red again like it did at the feast. “You’ll learn that when you’re older, Bran,” she answers, which is usually something only Mother or Father or Sansa will say.

He goes to protest, but then she leans down and kisses his forehead. Something about the way her hand lingers on his shoulder makes him think they will not be reunited for a long time yet.

 

 

Catelyn hugs first her daughter and then Theon, who Lord Umber tried to make leave too, but she made stay. By this point he should be son by law. Robb’s already hugged her in front of every lord she has with her. “We thought not to meet you here, My Lady,” Theon says.

Everyone is gone now, and she hugs him too. “It’s long past that, Theon,” she tells him. “I think by now Catelyn will suffice.”

“There was a letter,” Robb says, walking by the boy who should have been her husband twice over now, and retrieves a slip of paper, “from Sansa.”

The words fall heavy in Catelyn’s stomach. “From the Queen, you mean,” she says, and accepts it. The letter is short, but straightforward, and she sits for fear of fainting. “There’s no mention of Arya.”

Robb shakes her head. “No,” she says as Theon answers, “What we don’t know is if that means she escaped King’s Landing or not.”

Catelyn isn’t sure which option would be better for her daughter. If she weren’t eleven, perhaps having escaped, but she’s so young. “How many men do you have?” she asks.

“Eighteen thousand,” her daughter says and takes a seat too. “If I go to King’s Landing and bend my knee to King Joffrey—”

“You’d never be allowed to leave, no,” she agrees and wonders if bringing all eighteen thousand was her daughter’s idea, Theon’s, or a mutual decision. “Our best hope—our _only_ hope—is that you can defeat them in the field.”

“And if I lose?”

These past eighteen years people have always wondered how Catelyn managed to love her husband’s “bastard son” so much and her children’s tutors always asked why Ned was so adamant that they know the story behind the result of Robert’s Rebellion. Robb should be able to recite the story backwards and forwards, but Catelyn says anyway, “Do you know what happened to the Targaryen children when the Mad King fell?”

Neither her daughter nor Theon look at her when Robb answers, “They were butchered in their sleep.”

“Because of Tywin Lannister,” Theon adds, “who started the Lannister way of ruining everyone else’s livelihood.”

“The years have not made him kinder,” Catelyn says. “If you lose, your father dies. Your sisters die. _We_ die.”

With something inching towards smiles, Robb and Theon exchange a look she isn’t so sure she likes. “Well that makes it simple, then,” her daughter says.

“I suppose it does.”

Eighteen years now she’s protected Jon from the Baratheons and the Lannisters. Never once did she think she would have to protect her whole family from their wrath.

 

 

Two forces, Tywin’s or Jamie’s. The lords around her argue back and forth to attack one or the other, but it isn’t until the scout appears that the plan Robb began to devise on her own really seems possible. Because they need the men, so she needs to be at the Riverlands, but they need to at least distract Tywin Lannister. The Twins would be good too. There’s only one way she can see this working.

Robb walks around her men to get closer to the scout. “How high did you get?” she asks.

Interestingly, he looks only at her face when he answers, “Twenty thousand, maybe more.”

 _Twenty thousand._ How did he reach two more thousand than she actually has? No matter, if she defeats Jamie Lannister and gets the help of the Riverlands, she’ll have more than that in time. “You don’t have to do this yourself,” Rodrik says from behind her. “Your father would understand—”

“My father understands mercy,” she interrupts, twisting around to look at him, “when there is room for it. And he understands honor.” Turning back to the scout, she continues, “And courage. Let him go.”

The men holding him release his arm and Mother says her name in that way that means if she keeps doing what she’s doing she’ll have to double her needlework studying for the next few days. When Robb looks at her, though, she drops her eyes, and she goes back to the scout, leans close to his ear and says quietly, “Tell Lord Tywin winter is coming for him. Twenty thousand Northerners marching south to see if he really does bleed gold.”

“Yes, My Lord,” the scout answers. “Thank you, My Lord.”

After the men lead him out, Lord Umber circles around to stand in front of her, looming larger than anyone else in this tent. “Are you touched, girl?” he says. “Letting him go?”

This now marks the second time he’s called her that, and Robb isn’t amused. “Call me girl again,” she tells him. “Go on.”

He does and until he leaves, she’s still and the tent is silent. Once he’s gone, Theon says, “I hope you have a plan for this,” and uncurls the map.

“I do.” She turns, doesn’t return to her original place but moves closer to the table. “Unfortunately it’s not a particularly kind one.”

Rodrik says, “War is never kind, My Lady.”

“No, I mean this is cruel. And not to the Lannisters.” She reaches up to tuck stray curls behind her ear because her hair never stays entirely back in her braid. “I’m not sending anyone without their permission. Tywin will suspect an attack on Jamie, so he needs to believe the scout. I’ll march the largest party to take Jamie’s forces and the small party of volunteers will stage an attack on Tywin’s. Both parties will attack at nightfall.”

For a moment, the tent is again silent. Then Mother says, “That’s a death march, Robb.”

“It’s a solid strategy, Lady Stark,” Glover says, looking over to Mother. “And there are always men who wish to die. At least now they can do it with honor.”

Honor means nothing once you’re dead. Father told her that. “Gather the men,” she tells them all. “Every last one of them. I have an announcement to make.”

Everyone leaves, even Mother, leaving her and Theon alone. “Lord Glover is right,” he says. “That’s a good decision you’ve made, Robb.”

She reaches out and hugs him, buries her face in his furs and breathes in the lingering smells of Winterfell. If it’s a good decision, she thinks, then why does it feel so much like murder?

 

 

At first light, Robb makes the announcement that she needs volunteers. She makes it very clear that the men are unlikely to survive even with the advantage of a surprise attack. By nightfall, she has nearly two thousand men willing to bring the North to Tywin Lannister.

She doesn’t know if these men want to die or if they’re willing to die for her. She doesn’t know which option is worse.

 

 

Next to perhaps Theon’s negligent father, Walder Frey is the most reprehensible man Catelyn has ever met and age has only made him worse. Even if Robb were a son she wouldn’t have let her enter, but if her daughter understood the connotation behind Lord Umber’s words “or worse,” she did a remarkable job of not showing it.

“Give me one good reason I should spare a single thought to any of you,” he says, turning away from the fire, and just because Catelyn knew there would be terms involved didn’t mean she had to like them.

Reluctantly, she answers, “You want your children wed. I have sons and daughters for the younger ones.”

That gets her a noticeable spark of interest. “What’s your third daughter’s name again?” he asks and she thinks he knows the name of all her children quite well.

“Arya.”

“She can marry my son Waldron,” Lord Frey says without a question. “What of your oldest son?”

“Jon? He joined the Night’s Watch.” It’s nothing she’d been relieved of until now.

But Lord Frey simply shakes his head. “No, I mean your real son,” he says and oh, how Catelyn wishes _all_ lords and ladies would have learned by that she dislikes it when they point out Jon isn’t truly hers. “The cripple. I’m sure I have a daughter or granddaughter for him.”

Two children married to Frey’s? These are high terms. “Granted.”

“What of your eldest daughter?” he asks, surprising her. “That wedding of hers never seems to—”

“She has been promised to Theon Greyjoy for seven years,” Catelyn answers, perhaps sharper than she should have. “They will be wed once we have Ned and the girls back.”

Frey waves her hand in dismissal. “Fine, fine,” he says, “though if she wanted to rule over a body of water, I don’t see how the sea is any better than a river.”

“She’s heir of Winterfell, not the Iron Islands. Is there any request you can make in replacement?”

“I have a daughter named Roslin,” Frey says. “I doubt Lady Robyn as a squire. I want her to take Roslin on as her personal handmaiden.”

“I’ll see it done. And in return?”

In return Lord Frey grants all eighteen thousand crossing, as well as the majority of his own bannermen. Neither Arya nor Bran will be happy with this arrangement, but Catelyn takes the terms back to Robb anyway.

She doesn’t mention the insult about the Twins and the Iron Islands and hopes Roslin will do the same.

 

 

When Sam tells him of the oncoming war, Jon instantly thinks of what Uncle Benjen said and how he should have left instead of taken his vows. “I should be there,” he says, trying not to imagine all the terrible ways his sister can die in battle. “I should be with her.”

His friend repeats, “She has all her bannermen at her side. They’ll keep her safe, Jon.”

Not only does she have her bannermen, but she has Theon too, yet that doesn’t make him feel any better. “You’ve never met her,” he says. “I should at least be there to help her negotiate if she needs it.”

“You don’t think she can do it?”

With a quick shake of his head, he answers, “No, she can, if she gains the respect she deserves. But until she does that no one outside the North respects her. She’s not even married.”

It’s an awful thing, he knows, to speak this way of Robb, but even she knows it’s true; visitors from outside their land always treated her as more of a set piece or joke than an heir in a similar way he was always treated as a bastard. That attitude only slightly improved after her betrothal to Theon was announced. “You can’t think of leaving,” Sam says. “You’ll be beheaded for deserting.”

With Robb gone, Bran is head of Winterfell. Jon decides it’s safest to keep his mouth shut for now, even to his friend. After all, there’s no safety in pointing out in a crowded room that the family in charge of beheading for deserting is actually _his_ and anyone with eyes knows how close he is to Robb.

 

 

Jamie likes to pride himself in having a sharp mind for war and always expecting the unexpected. Regardless, he does not expect to be captured in the middle of the night by a little girl half his size.

To one side of her is her beast, teeth bared, and Greyjoy ties his hands behind her back. Robyn Stark holds his own sword to his throat in warning and the smile on her face really is as sharp as a young wolf’s. “You cut down ten of my men, Lannister,” she says and all around him are standing Northerners and soldiers draped in red either dead on the ground or captured, “but for each other of them, the rest of my men took over a hundred of yours. You’re _mine_ , Kingslayer.”

Not a day earlier he received word from his father that all of Stark’s banners were marching south. This doesn’t look like marching south to him. “Will I be your first execution, Lady Stark?”

She doesn’t answer, just stands, and climbs on to her horse. “Take him along,” she says instead. “We’ll decide what to do with him then.”

She looks though she already has a decision in a mind and though he would never admit it, that might just scare him.

 

 

One thing Theon hates seeing and has always hated seeing ever since the girl was four is Robb upset. And lately it’s something that’s been happening more and more. “You didn’t choose them,” he says because he knows exactly what she’s so upset about. “They volunteered.”

“I’m still the one who gave the command. That felt dirtier than any killing any Lannister men.”

All day people have been congratulating her on her victory. “You did what you had to, Robb,” he says, “though I must say, this is a truly terrible conversation to have not a half hour after sex.”

She laughs. “Sorry,” she says, and the smile dies quickly. “If it weren’t for the damn Lannisters this wouldn’t be considered a bad thing.”

“I still say you should’ve killed him.”

“I still want to. I just want my family back more.”

Her red hair is splayed out across the pillow and it’s most likely a bad idea to just lounge around like this. “We should go make sure he isn’t too comfortable,” he tells her, and rolls out of bed. The cold hair is uncomfortable against his bare skin. How many people can say they’ve had two weddings cancelled?

“Someone will come looking for us soon anyway,” she agrees and pushes her fingers through her loose hair. “We’re doing this again, though.”

In actuality, she’s probably one of the few women to lose her virginity right after a major battle, too. Then again, they’ve always been a little odd. “I don’t know why you would doubt otherwise, Lady Stark,” he answers as he pulls on his trousers and he doesn’t expect her to throw a pillow at his face.

 

 

Right before Ned loses his head, he thinks of his daughter who marches south whose rescheduled wedding was supposed to be a fortnight ago.

Apparently the Lannisters’ idea of a present is death and he hopes all his children make it this through this.

 

 

When Robb hears of her father’s death, she disappears into the woods and falls to her knees behind the furthest, largest tree so no one will see her cry. That’s how Mother finds her, struggling to keep herself quiet and hidden.

“I’ll kill them all,” she says when Mother drags to her feet as easily as she did when Robb was a child, and pulls her into her arms. “Every one of them. I will kill them all.”

Mother puts down her curls and shushes her and Robb doesn’t care that she clings. “Oh, my girl,” her mother said. “They have your sisters. We have to get Sansa and Arya back. And then we will kill them all.”

For a while they’ll stand there in the woods, holding onto each other for support. Robb will burn King’s Landing to ground if it means getting her sisters back because she will _kill them all._

 

 

Joffrey makes her look at Father and his men. Sansa doesn’t think she’s ever hated someone so much in her life.

Then the King says, “I’m going to give you a present,” and Sansa doesn’t look away from the spiked heads, hate curling through her. “After I raise my armies and _kill_ your traitor sister, I’ll give you her head as well.”

She turns her face sharp from the heads to Joffrey.

“Or maybe she’ll give me yours.”

The bruises she bares on her face are worth it.

 

 

Now that the Kingslayer is captured, the biggest concern is who will be king of Westeros and who the North will ally with. Unsurprisingly, her lords are much divided on this matter too. 

It’s late, the sun long gone down; they’ve been in this debate for an hour. “The proper course is clear,” Lord Glover says, standing to address the group. “Pledge fealty to King Renly and march south to join forces our forces with his.”

“Renly is not the King,” she says because, while she understands that she’s no one to speak of tradition, he’s simply not.

Lord Glover turns and says, “You cannot mean to hold to Joffrey, My Lady. He put your father to death.”

As her own situation is so abnormal, it feels odd to explain her decision as, “That doesn’t make Renly King. He’s Robert’s _youngest_ brother. If Bran can’t be Lord of Winterfell before me, then Renly cannot be King before Stannis.”

“Do you mean to declare us for Stannis?”

Well, as it’s the proper choice, yes, she supposes so, even though apparently the man has the personality of wooden box. All the men break out into another round of arguing, but Lord Umber stops them when he stands and calls, “My Lords! My Lords!” Slowly, they quiet, and he comes to stand in front of her. “Here’s what I say to these two Kings!” He spits and the crowd cheers. “Renly Baratheon is nothing to me, nor Stannis, neither. Why should they rule over me and mine from some flowery seat in the south? What do they know of the Wall? Or the wolfswood? Even their gods are wrong!”

Everyone laughs and Robb doesn’t interrupt him mostly out of confusion when he continues, “Why shouldn’t we rule ourselves again? It was the dragons we bowed to. And now the dragons are dead!” He draws his sword and points it towards her and her confusion is all but gone, though she doesn’t know if she quite agrees with this. “ _There_ sits the only person I mean to bend my knee to. The Queen in the North!”

And he does it. Bends his knee, that is. Robb stands in acceptance because she doesn’t know if she can be Queen in the North or even if she can win this war, but she knows she never wants to serve a Baratheon or a Lannister again. Lord after lord drops swears fealty to her, to a free and independent North, and she looks to Theon. “What about you?” she asks. “Ready to be King?”

“I was supposed to be yours a long time ago,” he answers. “I don’t care what title you come with.”

People cheer for their Queen in the North until the words stretch through every corner of the camp. Robb doesn’t know if she can do it, but these have been her people long before this and for them she has to try.

 

 

Arya leaves at midday with the blacksmith’s apprentice next to her. She’s got a brother at the Wall and a sister marching south. For now, she’ll let everything think she’s going to the Wall, or at least to Winterfell, which she very well might do.

But if she hears where Robb’s army is, she’s running there as fast as can and no one can stop her.

                                 

 

Before Jon leaves, he writes a raven to his sister. “It might not matter who sits on the Iron Throne when we’re out there,” he tells his friends when they ask what he’s doing, “but if Robyn sends a raven and doesn’t get an answer, she’ll worry.”

He writes that he’s going out beyond the Wall, but he’s with a large party and he’ll be safe. He also adds a wedding congratulations, saying she better be married by the time they reunite.

But, of course, no one else here has a family quite like his—even the ones born to lords and ladies, bastards or legitimate children of the like. “I’m sure she’ll be fine, Jon,” Sam answers and Mormont said earlier that he’s being ridiculous because one soldier won’t make a difference out in the field. “How many ravens will she able to spend in open war?”

“It’s her, my mother, and Theon,” he says. “You’d be surprised. I have to go find a raven to deliver this. I’ll be back within the hour.”

The three watch him go with varying looks of skepticism on his face. Jon decides that unless a person is a Stark, he really cannot understand what being one actually means.

 

 

Expectedly, Cersei is not too happy about the last minute change of appointments. Tyrion hadn’t imagined she would be, though he is certainly pleased that she sends the lords out before sitting down to talk. Their fights can still be quite childish at times. The curse of siblings, he supposes.

As she sits, his sister says, “I’ve done nothing,” as though that’s a good thing.

He drums his fingers on the edge of his wine glass. “Exactly,” he says. “You did nothing when your son called for Ned Stark’s head. Now the entire North has risen up against us.”

“I tried to stop it.”

“Did you? You failed.” He hopes she realizes how much worse this would be if Father were sitting here instead of him. “That bit of theater will haunt our family a generation.”

Almost disbelievingly, Cersei says, “Robyn Stark is a child.”

Apparently someone didn’t pay enough attention during their stay in Winterfell. Child or not, Ned and Catelyn raised her well. Very, very well. “Who’s won every battle she’s fought,” he cuts in. “Do you understand we’re losing this war?”

“What do you know about warfare?” she asks, which is a fair question, all things considered.

With complete honesty, he answers, “Nothing. But I know people. And I know our enemies hate each other almost as much as they hate us. And I know something else too.” She looks up, one brow raised. “Lady Stark is young, beautiful, and now in charge of her own land. No one took her seriously and overnight she gained the respect of all of Westeros, whether people hate her or not. That makes her a very dangerous ‘child.’”

For a moment, Cersei doesn’t do anything but look to him. “Joffrey is King,” she says eventually.

“Joffrey is King,” he repeats.

“You are here to advise him.”

“And I am here to advise him,” he says. “If the King listens, he might just get his Uncle Jamie back.”

Again, his sister pauses all movement. “How?”

“You love your children,” he answers. “It’s your one redeeming quality—that and your cheekbones. The Starks love their children as well. And we have two of them.”

Eyes turning downward, she says, “One.”

For a second, he thinks he mishears her. “One?”

“Arya, she disappeared.”

"Disappeared? What, in a puff of smoke?” Oh, his dear sister. It’s not often that Tyrion is the one without all the mistakes. “We had three Starks to trade. You chopped one’s head off and let another escape. Father would be furious. Must be hard for you, being the disappointing child.”

Cersei doesn’t answer and Tyrion decides to wait until tomorrow morning before he starts revising his plan to end a war with an angry seventeen-year-old girl.

 

 

Speaking with Jamie Lannister is probably something she should have done by now, but she hasn’t found time for it. Theon offered to go with her, but she declined because this is something she needs to do alone.

“Queen in the North,” the Kingslayer says when he sees her. “I keep expecting you to leave me at one castle or the next for safekeeping, but you drag me along from camp to camp. Have you grown fond of me, Stark? Has your husband become too dull? Or, sorry, your intended?”

She ignores the jab. “If I left you with one of my bannermen,” she answers, “your father would know within a fortnight. My bannerman would receive a raven with a message: release my son and you’ll be rich beyond your dreams, refuse and your house will destroyed root and stem.”

“You don’t trust the loyalty of the men following you into battle?”

“Oh, I trust them with my life,” she says. “Just not with yours.”

With a slight nod of his head, Jamie Lannister says, “Smart girl,” and perhaps he sees the way she tenses because he adds, “What’s wrong? Don’t like being called ‘girl?’ Insulted?”

Then Grey Wind begins to come round the side of the enclosure and his breathing is heavy enough to get Lord Jamie’s attention. “You insult yourself, Kingslayer,” she says. “You’ve been defeated by a girl. Held captive by a girl. Perhaps you’ll be killed by a girl.”

Once her direwolf is next to her, she tangles her fingers in his fur to hold him back, though she knows he won’t attack without her permission. Jamie Lannister has real fear in his eyes when she continues, “Stannis Baratheon sent ravens to all the highborns of Westeros. King Joffrey Baratheon is neither a true a King, nor a true Baratheon. He’s your bastard son.”

Ser Jamie tears his eyes away from Grey Wind to look up at her instead. “If that’s true then Stannis is the rightful King. How convenient for him.”

Truly, Robb wonders if the man can comprehend exactly how much everyone here hates him. “My father learned the truth. That’s why you had him executed—”

“I was your prisoner when Ned Stark lost his head.”

“—And your son killed him so the world wouldn’t learn who fathered him. And you pushed my brother from a window because he saw you with the Queen.”

Last time she and Queen Cersei saw each other, they traded stories of brothers and husbands. Only a year ago, but it feels so much long because she hadn’t understood. “Do you have proof?” asks Ser Jamie. “Or are we just going to sit here and trade gossip like a couple of fishwives? I know you’re a woman, but I hadn’t thought you that soft.”

Though it’s another comment on how backwards she is, she does take note on how he says woman instead of girl this time. “I’m sending one of your cousins down to King’s Landing with my peace terms,” she tells him.

“Do you think my father’s going to negotiate with you? You don’t know him very well.”

She smiles. “No, but he’s starting to know me.”

“Three victories don’t make you a conqueror.”

As she says, “It’s better than three defeats,” she lets go of Grey Wind’s fur and leaves. He doesn’t kill the man, but she thinks Jamie Lannister is beginning to understand the point. 

 

 

“These are? These are my terms,” Robb says and stands because sometimes that’s the only way to get men to look her in the eye. “If the Queen Regent and the King accept these terms, I’ll give them peace. If not, I will litter the south with Lannister dead.”

Alton Lannister’s back straightens, though the motion is slight. “King Joffrey is a Baratheon, Your Grace.”

“Oh, is he?” she answers and Theon passes over the paper with her terms. “You’ll ride at daybreak. That will be all for today.”

Once everyone leaves and it’s only the two of them left, Theon says, “A word, Your Grace?” in such a mocking tone she almost laughs.

Shaking her head in disbelief, she tells him, “Shut it, you. It’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny.”

At daybreak Alton Lannister will be riding to King’s Landing demanding the North will be made a free and independent nation. Your Grace indeed. “Just you wait until you start getting it too,” she says. “It’s strange. It’s very, very strange and I’m not used to it.”

He pulls her towards him, tucks her under his arm and Queen in the North or not, she still feels so small here. “The Lannisters are going to reject your terms,” he says.

“I know.”

“Fight them in the field as long as you like,” he continues. “We won’t beat them until we take King’s Landing. We can’t take King’s Landing without ships.”

Yes, she’d been thinking about that, too. “Renly Baratheon has ships through his wife,” she says. “So does Stannis, but no one here seems to like him much. I don’t care who sits on the Iron Throne now; if we back Renly, we get his ships. Just no Stannis.”

He tells her, “Lord Mallister was saying how Stannis had taken up this new religion. He’s letting it rule for him. If Lord Renly doesn’t work, my father has ships, and men who know how to sail.”

They never talk about his family even if they speak of the Iron Islands, so this catches her by surprise. “Men who fought against my father,” she says.

“Men who fought against King Robert to free from the south,” he says, “just like you’re doing now. I’m his only living son. He’ll listen to me.”

“His only living son who’s marrying the Lady—the Queen, sorry—of the North,” she points out. “We’re going to be King and Queen in equal parts once we finally have the chance to complete a ceremony. I can’t imagine him liking that.”

Shaking his head, Theon says, “But that’s it, Robb. By Iron Island laws, as the only living son, I’m heir no matter where I am. Succeeding from Westeros as King and Queen of the North means my homeland can legally be part of our kingdom if they fight with us.”

As she’s trying very hard not to think of ruling an actual kingdom any more than she has to until after she wins this war, the idea of annexed lands hadn’t even crossed her mind. By Westeros laws it was joining their Houses, yes, but she hadn’t thought of it like that. “My mother knows your father better than either of us even though you’re actually the one related to him,” she says once her head stops spinning from the idea that her territory might be bigger than she realized. “We should ask her what she thinks. How much do you remember of your family? You were only eight when you left.”

“Not much,” he answers. “I remember more the people and the land than my father and siblings. Most of my childhood consisted of chasing you and Jon around Winterfell to keep you out of trouble.”

With a smile, she says, “You didn’t do a very good job, did you?” and steps out of his arms. “Let’s go find my mother before she tucks in for the night.”

 

 

Once they’re in her tent and proposing his idea, which doesn’t seem like such a bad one to him, Catelyn says, “Your father won’t help you, Theon. If you send a letter to him, all it will do is alert him that the North is unprotected.”

“Why would he do that, though?” he asks and hates that he can’t answer his own questions about this. “He only fought the North because of King Robert. Shouldn’t he hate the Lannisters more?”

But Catelyn is already shaking her head. “Theon, do you remember what I told you after your father left?”

Eight, realistically, was not that long ago, and the day he was taken from his home and then dragged into the yard by a couple of four-year-olds is a hard one to forget. “You said you knew leaving home was hard,” he answers, “and that you and Lord Stark would make sure I’m happy in Winterfell.”

“Yes,” she says and takes her seat across from the two of them. “You fell into our hands as a peace agreement, but we didn’t have to. When we found you, we thought you were a lost soldier’s boy who somehow became swept up in the conflict. It wasn’t until you started speaking that we realized you were highborn. Your father treated you with about the same amount of attentiveness as Robert did his youngest.”

 _I remember more the people and the land than my father and siblings_. What he does remember of his father is about what Catelyn says: no one ever paid much attention to him because he’s the youngest son. “So you think he’ll attack the North because what?” he says. “You never returned me?”

Robb’s small hand slips into his. “Everyone involved agreed to keep you as far away from your father as long as we could,” Catelyn tells him. “It’s one of the reasons we decided the two of you would make such a good match. Despite being a man, it was still an excuse to keep you in Winterfell. If you write to your father, he may take the marriage as a personal affront.”

“We’ll join forces with Renly for ships,” Robb says. “Theon?”

By the time he was about ten, Theon stopped thinking much about his family because Lord Stark was personally teaching him how to use a bow. Even his archery skills past the basics came from Winterfell. “Let’s just focus on Renly, then,” he says and wonders why no one ever bothered to tell him sooner.

Catelyn says she’ll go speak with Renly at Robb’s request. If this works, it might not be long before they can all go home. To Winterfell.

 

 

Later, after she admits to Gendry that she’s actually Arya Stark instead some orphan boy, he comes back around to find her. “So back in Winterfell,” he says, voice so low even she can barely hear it, “were you a normal sort of lady or your sister’s sort of lady?”

When she first came to King’s Landing, she’d gotten similar questions often enough. On one hand there’s Sansa, who’s so much of a traditional lady that she named her direwolf Lady, and on the other there’s Robb, who currently leads a host to war. “More like Robyn, if that’s what you’re asking,” she answers. “Why else do you think I have a sword?”

“You said it was a gift. Did she get it for you?”

Thinking of Robb and Sansa was bad enough, but now he’s gotten her thinking about the rest of her family and doesn’t even realize it. All she wants is to go home, but she wants to rescue Sansa, too, so she hopes she finds her oldest sister soon. “No,” she says. “My brother gave it to me. Jon.”

“Must be a good brother, giving you a sword like that.”

“Yes, he is.”

Gendry shuts up, which she’s glad for, and she lies awake for a long while, wondering how long she’ll have to watch the stars before she sleeps.

 

 

After Brienne of Tarth escorts her to her tent, Catelyn says, “You would like my daughter if you met her. As allies, maybe you will.”

The tent for honored guests is actually quite spacious, she finds. “Your daughter is the reason I sought out to become a knight,” Brienne tells her.  “I told my father that if a woman could be expected to watch over a land, a woman should be able to fight.”

“Now you sound like my youngest daughter,” Catelyn says. “Arya is her name. Like you, Arya dislikes being called ‘Lady.’” If Renly assists, then they will all be together again soon. And if it comes to it, Robb will have to write a royal decree to get Jon from the Wall because she will not stand for the idea of not seeing all her children in the same room at least one more time. “Robyn never minded, though.”

Seeing that she’s now setting, Brienne bows. “It will be an honor to meet Lady Robyn,” she says and Catelyn will save any corrections on what it means to be Queen in the North for later, “and it was an honor to meet you, My Lady.”

They bid each other goodbye and she sits on her new bed, for the time being. The weather here is warm and humid and Catelyn longs for the chill of home.

 

 

It’s raining, and the water plasters stray curls to Robb’s skin. She has her sword in one hand, reins to her horse in the other, and Grey Wind at her side. This might be their last time being able to use a nightfall advantage before the Lannisters send out a message saying keep a party awake at all times of the day, but she’s willing to take what she can.

“Ready?” Theon asks, and she tightens the grip of her sword.

When Grey Wind attacks the two standing guard, his howl will act as the signal for her banners to move forward. “The Queen hasn’t yet replied,” she answers. “Until then, I have a promise to keep.”

He grins, and it’s a little wild looking and it’s a little dark, but it’s all right because people say she has the smile of a wolf.

Then Grey Wind rushes forward and they follow a moment after. The battle lasts the three hours it takes to reach daybreak and the ground is littered with Lannister dead. War is never kind, and she doesn’t feel so guilty now that she understands.

 

 

By moral obligation, he and Robb don’t share a tent in the eyes of the other men, but they’re in and out of each other’s so often it doesn’t matter. He’s been in hers not a half hour when she comes in suddenly, no Frey girl at her heels, and starts pulling at her clothes. “I’m covered in blood,” she says and he sees it clinging to the end of her braid. “Help me get out these.”

Stripping her out of her top clothes is no trouble all, but even once the bloody garments are all on the floor, she continues shaking. “What happened?” he asks and leads her back towards the bed because the battle is just won, the cleanup begun, and neither of them needed some time yet. “You don’t look hurt.”

She begins undoing her hair, probably to get the blood out of that, too, when she answers, “It two things, actually. First, Lord Bolton decided I was treating my prisoners improperly and decided to lecture me, in front of a small group, about how I should be flaying them for information. When I tried to remind him that Father declared flaying illegal, he answered that we were no longer in the North. I understand that Sansa and Arya are not his daughters, but they _are_ now part of the royal family. Even if that was decent behavior, does he really not see what the outcome of that would be?”

In the Iron Islands prisoners were tortured, but he doesn’t want to think of his homeland at the moment. “Your people follow you, Robb, not Roose Bolton,” he says, pulling her over by the waist. “If you say the prisoners aren’t to be touched, they won’t be touched. That’s treason if someone doesn’t listen. What’s the other issue?”

“There was a raven from Jon not long ago,” she says and her hands are stained red from what she’s managed to comb out from her wet hair with her fingers. “He’s gone beyond the Wall. Uncle Benjen is missing. He wrote congratulations for our marriage if we manage to get a wedding in before he returns.”

“Jon’s the only person I’ve seen best you at swordplay in the past three years,” Theon says quickly because Roose Bolton being a cunt is one thing but finding out her brother’s gone beyond where ravens go is another altogether. “Those wildlings won’t stand a chance. And he’s got a whole ranger party and Ghost with him, Robb.”

She nods, but she doesn’t seem any calmer. “I can’t have him dying, too, Theon,” she tells him. “Not my brother. Not Jon.”

Though they never got along, since the day he suggested it Theon had been telling the boy not to go. He wonders if Jon ever wishes he’d listened.

 

 

Under Renly, the North could have been perfect: an autonomous nation free to rule itself but allied in trade and war, if need be, with Westeros. All they had to do was acknowledge he was the rightful King and swear it. The man never even commented that there would be a difference between a King and Queen. It could have been that simple.

But now a shadow beast has killed him in his own tent and Catelyn is left with the remains of peace terms she should have known were too good to be true.

 

 

“You’re a Northerner, aren’t you?”

Since she left King’s Landing, Arya’s been in a lot of different dangerous situations, but she thinks right now might be the worst of it. No one wants Tywin Lannister catching their bluff. Even so, she nods.

Then Lord nods too and says, “Good. And one more time: where are you from?”

“Barrowton, My Lord,” she answers, because it’s the furthest place in the North she can think of from Winterfell. “House Dustin. Two crossed longaxes beneath a black crown.”

He’s not quite smiling but not quite keeping his lips in a straight line either when he asks, “And what do they say of Robyn Stark in the North?”

Well, here you say she’s winning, Arya thinks because in the end that’s important. And she also knows that now, she can tell them nearly anything and they’ll believe every word. “They call her the Young Wolf,” she starts, because that bit is true.

“And?”

“They say she rides to battle on the back of a giant direwolf,” Arya says and with Grey Wind as large as he is, she really might be small enough to. “They say she turns into a wolf once a month herself.” That’s what she and Sansa used to say back when she really didn’t understand what her sister meant when she talked about Robb taking so long to bleed. “They say she can’t be killed.”

Lord Tywin watches her with an even gaze. “And do you believe them?”

“No, My Lord,” she answers. “Anyone can be killed.”

That not-smile disappears right off his face. If she’s brave like Robb, maybe she can escape him and escape this terrible place and they’ll find each other again. Maybe Tywin Lannister will learn that she’s right and anyone can be killed.

 

 

Mother returns with a blonde mountain of a woman wearing armor and a sword at her side. When she drops to her knee and introduces herself as Brienne of Tarth, former knight of King Renly’s guard, Mother has this look on her face that means she’ll explain everything later. Theon stands next to her, evidently as confused as Robb.

“So Renly Baratheon is dead by the hand of a shadow in the shape of a man,” she says after she tells Brienne to rise, “and for this you’re willing to serve the North because we have the same enemies as long as you are the one to kill Stannis?”

Brienne’s posture is truly impeccable. “Yes, Your Grace,” she answers and Robb hopes her mother elaborates on this further later. “I will serve you well, Your Grace.”

Possibly since she is also a woman, no lord in the area calls in protest when Robb tells her, “If Stannis attacks us in a position that would allow us to capture, his execution is yours. Until that time, I will gladly accept you into my service…Brienne of Tarth.”

Though she didn’t return with an army, Mother is possibly the only person in the world who could actually receive good terms, lose them to a death at the hands of a religious fanatic, and pick up a woman knight along the way. If anything, it’s a job well done for originality. “Thank you, Your Grace,” Brienne says and Robb dismisses the party, informing Lady Frey to set the woman in the tent usually reserved for the guests of honor.

“I don’t know if the murder was Stannis himself or the priestess with him,” Mother says once everyone is gone and just the two of them and Theon are left, “but I do not doubt that he was involved. The woman proclaimed in front of everyone that he was ‘The Lord of Light’s Chosen.’”

Her men weren’t lying when they said Stannis had turned himself into a godly man. Robb just hadn’t expected something so literal. “If he or someone with him can kill with a shadow,” Theon says, “that doesn’t make him a fun enemy to face.”

“No,” Mother agrees. “It makes him more dangerous than the Lannisters if we get too close.”

Now that Renly is dead, there are no real contestants for the Iron Throne. “We may be succeeding from Westeros,” Robb says, “but that doesn’t mean I want to see it fall into another set of bad hands. Stannis were certainly make a terrible King.”

“Who else is there?” Theon says. “If there’s no one by the time we get there, King’s Landing will fall to chaos.”

“There’s Daenerys Targaryen,” she answers. “Her husband is dead, but she’s still alive and she has a legitimate claim to the crown.”

“Yes, but is another Targaryen really a good choice?” Mother says.

Shaking her head, she says, “I don’t know. Information comes slow to us, but it comes. We’ll find out sooner or later, I imagine. If not…I’m not sure. I don’t want it.”

“We would never be able to rule all of Westeros,” Theon says. “The heat of south would melt us from our insides.”

Despite the situation, this makes her smile just because it’s him. She likes the way _we_ sounds when he says it. “It’s not of immediate concern,” she answers because there aren’t many people in the Seven Kingdoms she knows well enough to trust or not and her people will stay in the North where they belong. The crown is not a duty she’s forcing on anyone. “For now we can continue forward. If it comes to it because we can’t find ships, we’ll sneak our way into King’s Landing and attack from the inside. I don’t know how yet, but I will think of something. Fortunately or unfortunately, we have the time for it. What else happened in the Stormlands?”

Mother tells her about Petyr Baelish and his promise to return Sansa and Arya after giving Father’s remains over as good faith.

Robb doesn’t trust a word of it.

 

 

Sansa sits in her chambers long after Ser Clegane tore apart the men who tried to hurt her, wrapped in evening clothes and given permission to retire until morning. Shea is here, but she likes Shea—trusts her, even. She’s the only one in King’s Landing with a heart.

And people say the North is made of frozen women.

As Shea brushes her hair, she reminds herself her sister is coming for, that no one is just leaving her here to rot. For now she has to stay, live here with all these liars and traitors and thieves, and stay brave like Robb.

 

 

When Arya was young, she used to get away with occasionally missing lessons. Jon, as the eldest and to a certain point Theon as well, were pushed to learn to the extent that their position in the household held while Sansa was the dutiful little girl who wanted to be taught everything she could about being a proper lady so she could leave the cold of Winterfell one day. Robb, as heir, trained and schooled with their brothers by day and after supper sat down to repeat Sansa’s lessons. As Robb was twelve when she did this and Arya only seven, she never cared much to pay attention, but she does remember Mother telling her sister she had to stop locking herself in her room for hours on end going over both sides of her lessons or she would make herself sick from never sleeping and rarely eating. She remembers her sister’s blistered, bandaged hands and Arya had arguments with Jon and Father who told her she was to grown up more like Sansa than like Robb and how that might not be as terrible as she thinks.

From what she knows, Robb never resented or hated their parents. As Lord Tywin explains shutting his son in a room to make him learn how to read, Arya wonders if Jamie Lannister is as forgiving as her sister. Though she never spoke to the man for long, she highly doubts it.

 

 

The Lannister boy returns with news from the Queen, so all the lords gather inside the council tent along with her and Theon. “What did she say?” Robb asks and the boy looks nervous.

“She…admired your spirit, Your Grace,” he answered, which is a lie if there ever was.

Robb’s not up for a game of pleasantries and riddles, though. “And what then?”

Glancing around nervously, he says, “She, um,” and Robb realizes what’s wrong.

“If everyone was held accountable for the actions of every distant relative, Ser Alton,” she tells him because she’ll get nothing out of him afraid like that, “we’d all hang.”

He’s noticeably relieved, but it still takes him a moment to say, “She tore the paper in half, Your Grace.”

Though Robb had expected her terms to be denied, that’s a certainly an unnecessarily disrespectful reaction. “You’ve acted with honor,” she says, even if he does seem to be the only Lannister who has, “and I thank you for it.” Looking past the boy, she continues, “Lord Karstark, see Ser Alton’s pen is clean and give him a hot supper.”

“Ser Alton’s pen is occupied, Your Grace, by the prisoners from the Yellow Fork,” Lord Karstark answers.

“Too many prisoners, Your Grace,” Lord Bolton says.

“Is there room for Ser Alton?” she asks and Lord Karstark says, “Does he need to lie down?”

She leans forward, hands on the table, and thinks of a solution. “Have the men build a new pen,” she says, “and put him with the Kingslayer for now.”

“But make sure they aren’t in position to so much as brush against each other,” Theon adds. “I mean no offense to Ser Alton, but I don’t even trust Ser Jamie with his own family.”

A murmured agreement ripples throughout the tent. “Sent up watch around them,” she says. “If he so much as makes a move to do anything, call out. I also don’t want anyone talking to him alone.”

As Karstark leads Ser Alton away, Lord Umber says, “You’ve spoken to the Kingslayer alone, You Grace.”

“I have a direwolf, Lord Umber,” she answers. “That’s not exactly alone.”

No one else comments or questions. Even Lord Bolton makes no suggestions on a way to weed out the prisoners and for that, she’s glad.

 

 

Sansa wakes up to blood on her sheets and on her dress.

Why couldn’t she be like Robb and not bleed until sixteen?

 

 

Before Jamie Lannister can try to kill his own cousin, one of the Karstark boys has an arrow pointing at his head from a distance too far to reach and the other is dragging the boy out.

“You were right,” Robb says as Ser Alton is set up for a healer to check his knee. “If they had been any closer, I think his plan might have worked.”

Theon still thinks they should take Jamie Lannister’s head, if only because he deserves it. But in the end, Sansa and Arya come first. He was raised with these girls as his sisters and he understands that whether he holds the name Greyjoy or Stark or whatever they decide. “We’re just lucky he didn’t get so much as a bruise in on one of the Karstarks,” he says. “Imagine how much everyone would argue over that.”

Though it seems as if Robb is about to say something, she abruptly stops. “My mother is moving with Lady Brienne towards the pen,” she says. “After Lord Baelish, I doubt this is for a good reason.”

She slips into the night and today has just been a day a lot of very bad things.

 

 

Catelyn stares at her daughter in disbelief when she blocks her off. “Petyr Baelish has already gotten himself inside your head,” Robb says. “I know you’re going to the Kingslayer to ask about Sansa and Arya. He’ll only try to manipulate you, Mother.”

It’s late, and everyone was either in their tent or the war council. Or at least she thought. She hadn’t even heard her. “You don’t understand,” Catelyn answers, but doesn’t try to move past her. “I need to know. You’re not a mother yet—”

“No, I’m not,” she interrupts, “but I _am_ a sister. Sansa and Arya are my family. I don’t want them in the hands of the Lannisters, either.”

How can she say that? How can she and yet do nothing? “Then why is he still here?” she asks. “Why have you not turned him over for their return?”

Looking beyond Catelyn’s shoulder, her daughter says, “Brienne, leave us,” and when the woman does so, she continues, “Because until Lord Baelish, the man who betrayed my father, came to you, there was not a word of Arya. I don’t believe the Lannisters have her at all. Releasing Jamie may not even get us Sansa back, in which case the only result would be dead Northern escorts and discontent within my men over letting him go.”

“How can you not even try? When did this war become more important than your sister’s life?” Catelyn says. “You’ve changed, Robb. You aren’t the same person you were in Winterfell.”

“I haven’t changed, Mother,” her daughter snaps. “I’m exactly who you and Father raised me to be.”

For a moment, Catelyn cannot even think of a reply because she sees that Robb is not wrong. The smile may be gone from her face most days, and now she dresses in breeches and a tunic for practicality, but her nails are bitten and under eyes are dark from sleepless nights. Ned always taught her to love her people as she loves her family and to fight with her mind as well as her heart. She’s a Stark of the North with the color of the warm south; the actual heat does nothing to melt the winter they put inside her, regardless of what Theon said. They trained the little girl out of her a long time ago in a way they never did the others because she was their heir. This is exactly who they taught her to be.

With a shaking hand, Catelyn reaches out to tuck her daughter’s hair behind her ear. “I’m so sorry, Robb,” she says. “I am so, so sorry.”

Confused, Robb asks, “For what are you apologizing?”

“You’re right,” she answers because suddenly there’s an exhaustion set deep in her bones. “I never should have let Littlefinger speak after what he did. I promise not to go near Jamie Lannister.”

Though she still seems suspicious, her daughter bids her goodnight. The Queen may have Sansa, but Catelyn did wrong by Robb long before this war was even a thought in their minds.

 

 

A woman has many advantages and Cersei knows most. She watches pretty little Sansa sit there praying with the other girls to give them hope, singing sweet as a caged dove, and wonders if her sister has learned there are more weapons in life than those men play with yet.  

Outside a war with Stannis Baratheon rages on and here she is, stuck inside with a group of women all scared like a flock of hens. She, Sansa, and the girl’s handmaiden seem the only ones unafraid, though Cersei thinks the other two are just good at hiding it. Robyn Stark is a tenacious child fighting a war that’s strategies she appears to understand without understanding its ideology, too, but she doesn’t seem particularly cruel, not like Stannis and his religious crusade. Though she dreads the idea of saying anything kind about the Starks, she’ll give the girl that much. Unfortunately Cersei is about as likely to charm herself between those legs as she is her brother by law’s, so her gentleness is wasted.

She calls the little dove over from her perch. “Sansa, come here,” she says, and the girl comes.

“My Queen,” Sansa answers, and bows her head.

 Cersei asks, “What are you doing?” and sips are her wine.

“Praying.”

“You’re _perfect_ , aren’t you?” she says, genuinely mystified at this. “ _Praying._ What are you praying for?”

Dear Sansa says she prays for the gods to have mercy on them all—even Cersei, even Joffrey. Yet Cersei imagines her thoughts are filled with prayers of dead lions instead because she hides it well with her clipped wings and little dove voice, but Sansa is still a Stark and still Robyn’s sister and somewhere inside her a wolf is still lurking. All they need to do is draw it from hiding and rip out its teeth.

If only it were that easy.

 

 

When Jon finds himself in front of a wildling with a mask made of bones, he knows he made the right decision when he didn’t listen to his friends and sent his sister the raven letting her know he was going beyond the Wall. That wedding will happen one of these days if not already and he’s glad he got a word it about it before he died, at least.

“I’ve already got one Crow,” the man—Lord of Bones—says. “Don’t need two.”

This is it, Jon thinks. I’m about to have my head cut off by a man named for his mask.

But then Ygritte says, “Mance will want to question this one. He knows all about where the Crows are and what they’re planning.”

“The Halfhand knows more,” answers the Lord of Bones. Their other captive kneels in the ice at the feet of two other wildings. “This one’s just a little boy. Gut him.”

Now, Jon might be a stranger to captive situations, but he can see that this is an exceptionally bad situation, despite Ygritte still fighting for him. “He could have killed me half a dozen times,” she says and he doesn’t know why she’s doing it but he doesn’t care either because if there’s a chance to get home, he wants that more than anything.

Lord of Bones remains unmoved. “And now he wishes he did. Gut him!”

“But he’s the oldest son of Winterfell! Ned Stark’s son,” she says, moving forward, and this gets the man’s attention enough to turn around. “Mance will want him.”

“What would Mance want with a dead man’s son?”

“I don’t know. I think he’ll want to decide for himself.”

Then Lord of Bones comes so he stands right in front of her in the looming way that Robb always hates and says, “If he runs, I chop his balls off.”

“He runs,” Ygritte says, “and I’ll do it myself.”

 

 

“What’s your name, boy?”

Unlike last time, Ygritte isn’t doing the talking for him, though he’s uncomfortably aware of how close she is behind him. “Jon Stark,” he answers and looks the man right in the eye. He doesn’t care about big men or little men—Father was right when he said they all fall the same in the end, just like Jamie Lannister told the truth when he said humans are only blood are guts and bones to hold it all together.

Before he correct his mistake and bow because he realizes that this is a King no matter where he hails from, another man comes around from behind the first. “So,” he says, drawing out the word slow and he’s dressed in black, which means this is Mance, not the other one like Jon thought, “you’re Ned Stark’s boy.” Then, looking beyond Jon’s shoulder, he adds, “Thank you for the gift, Lord of Bones. You can leave us.”

Jon looks behind him in time to Ygritte walk out, her eyes stuck to his until the moment the tent flaps shut. “The girl likes you,” says Mance. “You like her back, Stark. That why you want to join us?”

From behind Mance comes the first man again. “Don’t panic, boy,” he says as he walks to circle around. “This isn’t the damn Night’s Watch where we make you swear off girls.” Mance introduces him as Tormund Giantsbane. “Can’t believe this…pup killed Halfhand.”

“He was our enemy.” Jon looks up at this King Beyond the Wall and he knows he’s not the tallest man in the world but stuck between him and Giantsbane, he feels very small. “And I’m glad he’s dead.” Then he stretches out his hand, which Jon accepts and expects to be the end of it, but Mance just tightens his grip and pulls him closer. “He was my brother once, back when he had a whole hand. What were you doing with him?”

He releases his hand. “The Lord Commander sent me to the Halfhand for seasoning,” he answers and wishes he had more time to think this through.

“Why?”

There’s a moment where Jon panics and can’t think of a thing before he remember what Sam said ages ago to make him feel better for being declared a steward instead of a ranger and so he tells the men, “He wants me to lead one day.”

“But here you are.” Either Mance doesn’t believe his story, or he thinks there’s more of it, that much Jon can see. The man isn’t bothering it hide it. “A traitor.”

“If I’m a traitor, then you are too.”

The tension in the tent grows. “Why do you want to join us, Jon Stark?” He says he wants to be free and this time there’s not even a hint of belief in his voice when Mance continues, “No, I don’t think you want to be free. What I think you want most of all is to be a hero. I’ll ask you one last time: why do you want to join us?”

Unable to think of anything else, he tells the story of the baby boy in the woods and the thing that took it and how the Lord Commander knew and let it happen. “The Night’s Watch was never the place for me,” he adds in case they need more. “I already tried to run away once, but my friends brought me back. Along with this, though…there’s no going back after that. I want to fight for the side that fights for the living. Did I come to the right place?”

“Why did you try to run away the first time?”

“Because the King took off my father’s had as a spectacle,” he says, this one easy. “I understand the Night’s Watch takes away your titles and claims, but the Lannisters have two of my sisters hostage and a raven said Robyn marches to war to get them back and claim the North its own kingdom. The bannermen are heading south, but so are the Wight Walkers. I want my home protected.”

Mance raises his brow. “You’re going to need a new cloak,” he answers and Jon hopes he didn’t sign an unprotected North away to the wildings.

 

 

Until this, Theon thought Robb could probably take anything by now. By apparently torture is too much because he barely gets her out of view of the men before she throws up. Conveniently, it’s the one spot in all of Harrenhal where you can’t see a mangled corpse. Unfortunately, that does nothing for the smell.

When she stands, she wipes her lips with the back of her hand. “Did anyone see that?” she asks, and braces her hand against the blackened wall.

“No,” he answers, and rubs her arm. “No one saw that.”

She touches her temple and says, “We’ve seen tortured prisoners at Lannister camps. I thought I’d seen it all. But this—this is something new. Some of my men will possibly recognize some of those they find. We need to be with them.”

Though he wants to because she still looks pale, he doesn’t protest. She does compose herself, despite losing what she had in her stomach, and sets her mouth in a line. “We will take King’s Landing,” he tells her, hands on her shoulder, “and for every one of these men, we’ll take one hundred of theirs. Tywin Lannister will come to regret this, Robb.”

With a short nod, she turns her back and walks around the wall they’d been hiding behind. No one so much had noticed their absence, as disgusted as they are, and this is when they find the one living man. Theon gives the man some of his water.  

“What’s your name, friend?” Robb asks, kneeling in front of the man as she transforms from scared girl to Queen in the North.

Coughing through it, the man says, “Qyburn,” and if it’s a House, Theon doesn’t recognize it.

Theon says, “You’re lucky to be alive,” and out of some cruelty or mercy, that’s just as the man dies.

Catelyn first holds her daughter when they stand and then him. Somewhere deeper in the fortress a man screams for the death of his brother. He hadn’t known it was possible to hate the Lannisters anymore than he already did.

 

                                          

The Northern way is the old way, so they can’t leave the prisoners out of the crows to peck at. Instead they bury all two hundred of them properly, though no one is pleased with the task or that the burial is here in this cursed place, but the truth remains that they’re in Harrenhal of all places when Robb receives the raven.

Even though she knows she should give it to Mother right away, she finishes helping Lord Glover bury a stonemason from his village before leaving. Everyone, including Theon, keeps telling she can keep her hands clean, but these were her men, too. Most she never met, but they were hers because whether she wins this war or loses it, the North is hers. The North has always been hers, ever since the day the late King Robert gave Father permission to make his eldest daughter heir.

When she sees the letter, Mother doesn’t cry, but she looks so exhausted it’s almost worse. “I hadn’t seen him in years,” she says, crumpling the paper in her loose fist. “I don’t even know how many.”

“We’ll travel to the funeral together,” Robb answers gently, taking her mother’s other hand. “Lord Bolton will garrison here.”

Mother turns and kisses the top of her head. “There’s something else,” she says. “Please don’t keep it from me.”

Almost reluctantly, Robb says, “I received a raven from Jon, finally. He said that deserter a year ago wasn’t wrong and Wight Walkers are coming. He also said he’s with the wildlings now fighting them, which must mean they captured him.”

“The wildings have crossed over the Wall?”

“No,” she answers quickly. “He’s…beyond it. Has been for a while now. I hadn’t thought I’d hear from him this soon from his last letter.”

Disconnecting their hands, Mother stands, and her anger is obvious in her posture and words when she asks, “And why didn’t I know my son was beyond the Wall when you first received the news?”

Robb drops her eyes so she won’t have to look at her. “You were in the Stormlands. I didn’t want to worry you.”

“He could have died, Robyn!” she says. “You had no right to keep that from me.”

She’s upset, Robb tells herself, even though she knows this blame falls entirely to her. For many years she and Jon didn’t understand he wasn’t truly her son, so she cannot use that as an excuse for withholding information. Her reason had been purely selfish; she doesn’t like seeing other people hurt. Especially not family.

As she stands, she says, “We’ll leave in the morning. Get some rest, Mother. There are dead that need resting, too.”

Mother doesn’t answer when she walks away.  

 

 

Though it’s a lot to ask an enemy who may or may not become an ally with the right answer, Jon says to Mance, “You want to go as far south as south can go, right? What if I told you my sister would let you pass through the borders as easy as you’d like if you help defend the North from what’s coming?”

The King Beyond the Wall glances down at him. “Is this the real reason you came, Stark?” he asks. “For us to help those that killed us?”

“We’ve got a Queen who won’t care if the one fighting is man and woman as long as you’re loyal,” he answers. “I hadn’t meant to, but now I’m thinking. Winterfell is mine as much as it’s hers. Seeing it destroyed by anything or anyone just wouldn’t do.” He pauses before adding, “You said you united everyone by saying they were all going to die. I wasn’t there, but I can guess how my sister did the same thing.”

Mance looks amused when he says, “How?”

“She got her people to love her,” he says. “The rest of Westeros might hate the two of us, but the North doesn’t and that’s what matters now.”

It’s not too well hidden that the man is still suspicious of him, but he’s visibly more relaxed when he claps him on the shoulder. As much as Jon regrets so much as admitting it, this is a true betrayal. “No one deserves to die that way,” he says. “I’d like to see land without snow once more.”

“Winter is coming.”

“Here’s the secret, Jon Stark: Winter doesn’t last forever.”

 

 

The moment Arya says her sister taught her how to use a sword everyone laughs harder. Therefore, she thinks it’s perfect justifiable when she stands and holds hers out. Despite it not necessarily being true, _no one_ insults her family and gets away with it.

Thoros of Myr draws his sword and knocks her own away in an instant. “To your sister!” he calls, holding another man’s cup in toast, and returns to his seat.

Robb could beat him, she thinks. Robb could beat him before he could blink. And so could Jon and Theon and Father could have most of all.

But then they’re about to release her and the insult is near forgotten—should be forgotten, really, and would be if it weren’t for the man with black hood entering. Even before they pull it off, she recognizes him. “Not a man, but a Hound!” Thoros says as Arya turns around, wishing she could disappear from sight. “It’s been a long time, Clegane.”

“Thoros,” the Hound answers, “the fuck you doing here?”

The man replies but Arya doesn’t listen, pushing her friends past and keeping her head down. For a moment she thinks she’s going to make it but then the Hound calls out, “Girl!” and she knows she failed. “What in Seven Hells,” he continues as she turns, “are you doing with a Stark bitch?”

After that, no one speaks. Then one man says, “Robyn Stark didn’t do a very good job teaching you how to defend yourself, girl.”

People laugh and the Hound stares with his scarred face and burning eyes. Arya wants matches and a chance to light the man on fire.

 

 

It’s a funeral, so Robb has the men clothes she’s spent the past while wearing replaced with one of the two dresses she bothered to bring. She catches sight of her reflection in the water when Uncle Edmure and Theon push the boat with her grandfather’s body into the river and she looks like a much shorter version of Sansa.

When Uncle Edmure fails shooting the flaming arrow three times, Mother nudges Theon, who goes to take his place. He makes a comment about being less upset as he removes the bow from the other man’s hands and the arrow lands in the center of the boat on his first try. It’s so far away by now that he’s possibly the only one that could have made it. “Thank the gods for a Greyjoy,” Bryden says under his breath, but it’s still loud enough for nearly everyone to hear.

Uncle Edmure is embarrassed and somehow war is easier to deal with than family.

 

 

Within the next hour, though, Robb quickly loses patience for her uncle despite what he faced earlier.

“If I may, niece,” he says as they stand together in a room overlooking the lake along with Bryden and Theon, “I encountered a situation earlier with one of my lieutenants at the stone mill, which may have some baring—”

Before he can finish, Bryden interrupts him with, “Will you shut your mouth about that damn mill? And don’t call her ‘niece.’ She’s your Queen.”

Calling her niece is just about the only thing she doesn’t mind in this whole situation. “I meant no disrespect—”

“You’re lucky _I’m_ not your King,” he goes on and she understands that this is war, but no one in her camp argues half as much as the people here do, “I wouldn’t let you wave your blunders around like a victory flag—”

“My _blunder_ sent Tywin’s dog scurrying back to Casterly Rock with his tail between his legs,” her uncle says. “I think Queen Robyn understands we’re not going to win this war if she’s the only one winning battles. There’s glory enough to go around.”

Turning around, she says, “It’s not about glory,” and walks towards them. “Your instructions were to wait for them to come to you.”

“I seized an opportunity.”

Coming up next to her, Theon asks, “What was the importance behind a single mill? If we’ve not lost a battle yet, don’t you think that means we’ve been doing something right?”

Looking for glory is what gets your men killed. Father taught her that—them that, really, and Jon, and would have been Bran and Rickon were he still alive to do so. Now once they win teaching them will fall to her or to Theon. “I wanted to draw the Mountain into the west,” she tells her uncle, “into our country where we could surround him and kill him. I wanted him to chase us, which he would have done because he is a mad dog without a strategic thought in his head. I could have his head on a spike by now. Instead I have a mill.”

Her uncle answers that they took hostages like that’s a good thing. “We have hostages of our own,” Theon says. “You saw the Kingslayer yourself tied up in the dungeons here. We want important Lannister men dead, not fleeing while we keep the foot soldiers in cages. You took a couple of fourteen-year-old boys like they mean something.”

“Martin Lannister is fifteen, I believe,” says Bryden, and goes back to drinking his wine.

“Tywin Lannister knows we have his son Jamie,” she says, stepping forward. “Has he sued for peace?” When he says no, she continues, “Do you think he’ll sue for peace because now we have his father’s brother’s great-grandsons, too?” When he says no again, she asks, “How many men did we lose?”

He says, “Two hundred eighteen,” but quickly tries to argue, “but for every one of them the Lannisters—”

“We need our men more than Tywin needs his!”

She hadn’t meant to yell or to lose her temper, but she doesn’t apologize for it. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t know.”

“You would have,” she says, “had you been patient.”

One of the first lessons to warfare she ever learned was to chose her battles wisely. “We seem to be running short of patience here,” Bryden says.

As they go to leave because she promised to check on Mother, Theon says, “The same can’t be said for the Lannisters,” and it’s true.

Lord Tywin can take all the time he needs. Now they have a useless mill, over two hundred men dead, and no one to replace it. Not unless they outsource for help and she doesn’t like the idea of that.

 

 

“How far south would you sister be willing to let us go?” Mance Rayder asks as they look down at the spiral of dead horses.

“As far as you wanted,” Jon answers, “as long as you obey her laws in her country—no murder, no raping, no stealing, no torture. And since I abandoned my post, until she gets back I’m acting Lord of the North.”

Clapping him on the shoulder, the other man says, “Giantsbane, climb the Wall. Take this one, he knows their defenses. Burn any Wight Walker you see and go as far south as south will go.”

Jon feels like he’s standing on the tip of a knife and this could either be very good or very bad. “I can give you a map of the Seven Kingdoms as it once was in Winterfell if you don’t hurt anyone. I can bring you to the southern border or further, if the war isn’t over,” he tells them. “I can lead you over an unguarded area of the Wall. After that, you’re in my country. No one will harm you who you don’t try to harm first.”

The man with the raven asks if he’s serious about this, that he really thinks he can be giving orders so freely already. “He’s granting you a way south with the promise of no human obstacles,” Mance says, still looking at the spiral of dead horses. “If he looks to be betraying us, Giantsbane, throw him off the Wall.”

This could be the North’s death or its savior. He can practically hear Robyn’s laughter for siding with the wildlings and hopes he isn’t wrong when he says she’d let them stay.

 

 

Except for Jorah, Daenerys never thought she would meet someone once so loyal to Westeros. Or still so loyal, according to Ser Barristan. He claims that he wishes to serve someone who cares about the people, not about power because those in his country have suffered for too long in the hands of those who only watch for their own interests.

He offers similar council as Jorah, too, when he says, “To defeat the Baratheons and the Lannisters, you will need allies in Westeros.”

With her dragons and now her army, she feels as though this is of lesser importance than it once was. Regardless, she can understand the necessity. “Is there anyone in Westeros with the power to grant an alliance with me?” She’s learned now that allegiance isn’t how her brother thought it was, where common people sewed flags and prayed for Targaryen return because they wouldn’t be able to make a difference for her, in the end.

“I was dismissed before the war had truly started,” Ser Barristan answers, “but after Joffrey Baratheon took Ned Stark’s hostage, his daughter Robyn took up arms against the crown. Rumors I heard in the harbor as I left to sail the Narrow Sea said she’d won three battles and held the Kingslayer captive.”

 _Ned Stark._ “Isn’t that the family that wants your head, Ser Jorah?” she says, turning to her friend whose opinion she still holds at higher value than this former Captain of the King’s Guard.

“Yes, it is,” he says, “but the children were very young when that happened. I doubt they would remember my name. That girl managed to capture Jamie Lannister? Is Jon with her?”

“Jon took the black,” Ser Barristan says, though Daenerys doesn’t know what that means. “Though she does have Theon Greyjoy by her side, if having a Greyjoy means anything. Queen Daenerys, if there is anyone in the Seven Kingdoms who would ally with you now, it is Robyn Stark. She won’t want the Iron Throne for herself, if she’s anything like her father.”

To take Westeros, she’ll need help from the inside. Robyn Stark seems a better option than any. After all, men may start wars, but it’s women who finish them.

 

 

Because of Edmure Tully’s mistake, now they need to take Casterly Rock, too. Theon knows this, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it. Attack two places at once as actual battles instead of a trap spreads their forces too thin. Considering that Robb’s been shooting glares at her uncle’s back all day, he isn’t the only one who feels this way.

Once everyone’s gathered in the council chamber here in Riverrun, she says, “If I send all my banners there at once, Tywin will send all his too. We’ll become stuck between the castle walls at our front and his army at the back. The only way to do this is take half our forces and continue marching south to King’s Landing.”

“My men will help on the assault to Casterly Rock to replace the two hundred Lord Edmure lost,” Lord Karstark says, which Theon thinks is a good thing because he never liked the man much to begin with. His beard’s always uneven. “Taking their home will be a blow to their spirit as well as their numbers.”

Tywin Lannister has too much patience for his own good, if they can make that into a bad thing. “That doesn’t do anything for our own numbers,” Theon points out, looking down at the map and finding the unpleasant midway point. “Are we desperate enough to return to the Twins?”

Catelyn says, “Walder Frey will want another bargain if it’s more men we ask for.”

“Then we better hope we can pay it,” Robb answers, leaning away from the table. “It’s time to pay Lord Frey another visit.”

 

 

As they walk to the Wall they’re supposed to climb because Jon is about to betray the group he swore fealty to, he tells Ygritte, “When Robb marched to war and I was supposed to go past where the ravens would reach, you know what the Lord Commander said to me?”

They’re in step with each other, not marching the way Night’s Watch men or the armies of Westeros do. The wildings are so loose and he doesn’t like it. There’s no sense of routine or even true leadership. You cannot rule a people just because you tell them they’re all going to die, whether it’s honest or not. Not for long.

Glancing up at him, Ygritte says, “What did the Crow say to you to get you so angry with him?”

He was never angry, not really, but he wasn’t happy with it either. “The Lord Commander told me we have more important things to worry about than who sits on the Iron Throne,” he answers, trying to keep his balance on the metal shoes. “I understand what he meant, but it matters it me. Who sits on the Iron Throne determines if my family will live or die. You’re right about us all just being soldiers.”

“You’re so loyal, Jon Stark,” she says. “Shame the Crows never figured it out for themselves.”

When Uncle Benjen said he didn’t have to take the vows, he should have listened. He really, really should have listened.

           

 

Arya might not like the Brotherhood all that much, but they don’t seem to mind teaching her how to use a weapon. She asks Anguy if she can use a bow because she’s got all these names on her lips and nothing to take them out on.

After she shoots her first round of arrows, Anguy says, “Where’d you learn to shoot, girl? Your sister again?”

For some reason, everyone still seems to think that’s funny even when she admitted after the incident with the Hound that it was Michah she practiced with, not Robb. “I watched Theon Greyjoy shoot for years,” she answers and knocks another one. “I’ve never seen anyone shoot better than him.”

Anguy’s mouth twists into a smile. “I’d like to take him up on that one day.”

Theon could put an arrow straight through your heart, she thinks, because she’s a Stark and that’s the only reason they aren’t letting her go and she doesn’t like them. She wants her sisters and brothers and Mother and Theon. She wants Winterfell and the North. She wants the Lannisters to regret everything they’ve done.

Most of all, she just wants to go home, wherever that may be.

 

 

Frey’s new terms are for Edmure to be married within the fortnight to one of his daughter as if the man doesn’t realize they’re in the middle of the war. Of course, her brother isn’t happy about it, but after much coaxing, Catelyn and her daughter manage to get him to agree.

“My father is willing to be generous,” one of his sons adds and there are so many Catelyn can’t keep straight in her head all of their names. “He says that though his daughter deserves a night to herself, he’s offered to allow Queen Robyn and Lord Greyjoy to marry then, as well. For time’s sake of course.”

If the man cared anything for time, he’d postpone the wedding until the end of the war. She suspects this is actually his petty revenge for when she turned down his demand for Robb to marry one of his sons. They have been forced to wait so long they deserve something wonderful and special back home in Winterfell when all is at peace, not here in the middle of all this bloodshed in conjunction to Edmure’s wedding.

Apparently, though, they don’t seem to feel the same, for they share a very long look before Robb turns back to the two sons holding councils and says, “We accept his terms.”

Sansa will never be able to see her sister wearing the wedding dress she helped design.

 

 

Jon takes Ygritte to the side of the Wall that faces is Westeros. “All of that,” he says, pointing down the way of the horizon, “is my family’s. Not the Seven Kingdoms’, not the Night’s Watch’s. The Stark’s. And Robb’s out there fighting to make it free.”

“Does that make me Lady Stark now?” She’s still breathless from the climb.

Instead of telling her it would take a marriage for that to happen, he kisses her up here on the Wall and tries not to think about what Robb would say if she knew he had sex with a wildling girl in a cavern.

 

 

“We’re getting married!”

Robb keeps her composure right up until everyone leaves, where immediately after she turns around and near throws herself at Theon. “Only took a year and a half,” he says with a laugh, and kisses her. “Seven Hells, has it really been that long?”

With a nod, she answers, “And I don’t mind that it’s not in Winterfell. That’s how long it’s been.”

“Fuck the Lannisters,” he says, and starts peeling off her wet clothes. “They can’t ruin a wedding that wasn’t planned.”

“The surprise advantage is how we get them on the field of battle. Why shouldn’t it be the same for love?”

The end of her sentence gets caught somewhere between their mouths. No, she thinks, this is the one good thing the Lannisters can’t ruin. The gods can give her this one night, at the very least.

 

 

When Sansa cries into Margaery’s shoulder, the other girl simply lets her.

“I want to go home,” she says. “I just want to go home.”

She wants to go home, but instead she’s marrying a Lannister again and she learned a long while ago that there’s no such thing as worldly justice.

 

 

Since they’d originally postponed the wedding for when they saved Father, Sansa, and Arya, Robb brought her dress along as well as the other one for formal occasions if she ever needed it. Though she grew up raised as a boy half her childhood, she never lost touch with being a girl and while not quite so much as her sister, she really does love dresses. Never needing to wear one because of the war is necessary and not particularly bothersome, but she’s still rather excited at the prospect of being able to finally put this on.

If only Sansa and Arya were here to see it. If only Father was.

A few days before the wedding, she tries it on, something she quickly realizes was a good decision because she’s lost weight since the war began. A lot more than she thought, it seems. “This is the reason even highborn ladies learn to sew,” Mother says as she threads a needle. “I won’t have a Frey girl touching this dress.”

“Is it terribly noticeable?” Robb asks, trying to look behind her and failing because all Mother does is push her by the shoulder to face forward again. “There’s so much excess silk.”

Dresses were never a thing she had in abundance back in Winterfell, as much as she loved them, but she learned early that silk is a difficult fabric to work with. “I’m not pulling it in all in one area,” her mother answers, and begins stitching at the back. “You wear furs so often I hadn’t realized how thin you’d gotten.”

Men gain muscle in war, if they’re fed well enough. All the activity stripped her down to an uncomfortably small size. “That’s why I wear them,” she says and looks down at herself, body wrapped in gold and ivory instead of her loose men’s clothes. “I wonder what Lady Frey is wearing.”

“Whatever it is, I’m sure she won’t look as beautiful as you.”

“That isn’t what I meant, Mother.”

Mother stands and kisses her forehead. “It’s your wedding day, Robyn,” she says. “Please, let me be proud of you.”

This isn’t what she wanted, not at all, even if she never particularly cared about the size of the event, but she can let her mother be proud of her all the same.

Fixing the dress takes two hours and a pricked finger. There’s some blood on the silk, but not nearly enough to notice, and she assures Mother it’s all right.

 

 

“The man’s got more horses than he needs, Crow!”

Why is it that Ygritte is the only reasonable wildling? Jon wonders and tries not to snap at all of them. This is his country now and he made it clear: they can do what they want south of it, but here they have to play by his rules.

Which explicitly included “No Murder.”

Possibly because of Ygritte, but he manages to get a rein in on his temper. “I can get us seven of the eight horses,” he tells them. “Just wait here and don’t touch anything.”

Orell, who Jon wants to kill more strongly by the hour because he notices the way he looks at Ygritte, says, “You southerners are all so soft down here.”

Jon ignores him and hopes over the stonewall. The old man emerges when he comes close enough, even goes so far as to wave. The exchange is a quick one—he says he’s Jon Stark, which is the truth, and he and his party need to get to Winterfell to protect it while his sister’s gone but they lost their horses. The man even asks if they lost them to the Wight Walkers when he hands them over, and if Jon knows when the war is to end because he has a son out there fighting.

“I will see your horses returned to you,” he tells the man, and pulls himself on to one horse so he can lead the others back over to the wildlings. “I don’t know how long until the war ends, but nothing can last forever. Thank you for your help, Ser.”

“Protecting us from the Wight Walkers is all the thanks I need, Lord Stark,” the man answers, and bows. “Stay safe, My Lord.”

The sun hasn’t even moved position in the sky when he returns. “I got you your horses,” he says, and holds out his hand to held Ygritte on the horse behind him. “Killing’s against the law here in the North.”

None of them seem too happy about this reminder, but he promised them as far south as south could go. Robb better appreciate this.

 

 

The Frey girl and Edmure were married first and Robb and Theon second. It’s supposed to be Roslin’s night, and yet once they’re out there, no one has eyes for anyone but the King and Queen in the North.

Catelyn smiles at her daughter who stands there with her hands bound to Theon’s and in her golden dress, she’s as radiant as the sun.

 

 

Theon notices Roose Bolton’s betrayal before she does, and bangs the man’s head against the table as he steals his sword. Everything breaks into chaos, after, because her men—her _loyal_ men—might not have weapons, but they’re good at disarming. Even in a wedding dress, she manages to, as well, but not before Mother has a knife to Lady Frey’s throat.

“Theon, get Robb out of here,” she says and somewhere along the way he got his hands on a crossbow, which he used to shoot down all those on the balcony. “Theon, if you love her, take her away.”

Then he’s got an arm around her waist to pull her back, but she’s moving forward to help because these are _her_ people and suddenly Roose Bolton himself has his sword against her mother’s neck, too. “The Lannisters send their regards,” he says, and draws the blade across.

“Mother!”

“Catelyn!”

Distantly, she hears someone calling against for the two to get out, and to protect them, and though she struggles to go to her mother, Theon is large enough and strong enough to drag her. And then it’s a good thing they’ve left because there are more soldiers outside positioned to kill Grey Wind, but Theon still has the crossbow and after the surprise of the first man going down, the others are quick to follow. Inside the sounds of fighting, and she doesn’t recognize any of the screams. Her yellow dress is splashed with her mother’s blood.

Gold and red. _The Lannisters send their regards._

When she says, “I’m going to kill them,” it feels like someone else is talking. “They better bring them to me alive because I want to kill them myself.”

Inside the kennel, Grey Wind barks loudly and scratches at the wooden door. She should let him out, but Theon doesn’t seem to care that she’s drenched in blood and decorated like a Lannister, because he has his arms locked tight around her. “You can’t kill Bolton,” he says into her hair. “I already shot him.”

Before she can say that he’s her husband, now, so if it had to be anyone else it had to be him, a voice she thought she’d never hear again calls, “Robb!”

For a moment, she thinks she’s imagining it, but then Theon says, “ _Arya?_ ” and she turns and her sister is there, appearing from the bushes. She’s dressed as a boy, too, with her hair short, and Northern soldiers are at her heels gripping at the bound arms of a captured Ser Clegane. Robb just lost her mother but here’s Arya, at least looking healthy and whole.

The world is a joke and she wonders why she can’t hear it laughing.

 

 

When the Hound said Robb would ransom her, Arya never bothered to tell him he was wrong. The moment she tells her he said that, her sister takes her hand off Grey Wind’s fur and the direwolf takes out the man’s neck. Mother is dead at the Lannister’s orders and Robb’s wedding dress is caked with drying blood with Theon in a not much better state and Arya feels no satisfaction at being right.

Robb doesn’t behead Frey either, but has him hanged because what he did was without honor, so he dies without honor. Everyone in that room who fought for the traitor Bolton or the Freys is dead with Mother as the only Northern casualty. When Arya requests helping to burn the banners with the Frey sigils, no one argues. In the firelight, Robb’s eyes are the same color as Grey Wind’s, who hovers at her side, and they really do look like a wolf’s.

Once they kill the Lannisters, Arya wants to burn their banners, too. Then she wants to burn the Baratheon’s for good measure and march on home.

 

 

After they burn the banners and Robb gives over the Twins to Uncle Edmure and his Frey wife, who is innocent in this whole matter, she finally gets the chance to change. Both she and Theon scrub themselves off of her mother’s blood and though if it up to her she would send her remains home for proper burial, they have to stay here or be sent to Riverrun. Besides, the Twins are officially hers along with the rest of the Riverlands now that her uncle pledged fealty to her. By complete accident, Robb has built a real Northern Kingdom that cuts straight through Westeros.

Everyone stares when she and Theon enter what would normally act as a guest chamber. Arya is there and Robb knows she should tell her little sister to leave, but she’s afraid that if they lose sight of each other, she’ll disappear. Lord Karstark says, in a voice is unusually gentle it almost scares her, “We don’t need to do this right this moment, Your Grace.”

Arya’s eyes focus blankly on the far wall. “Well, I want to leave as soon as possible, so we are,” she answers bluntly and feels Theon’s hand on her lower back, hidden from view of the lords in the room, but grounding her. “The people of Westeros don’t deserve something like this. They need someone new who won’t be bribed by the Lannisters because I’m not Tywin. We want to be an independent nation, but I can’t leave innocent people to fend for themselves.”

No one else needs to go through this, though she wouldn’t mind interrupting something largely important as proper retaliation. “We were thinking of giving Westeros back to Daenerys Targaryen,” Theon adds. “Everyone knows she’s coming. With dragons. She has no other allies in Westeros, or at least not any powerful enough to get her into the country. She needs us.”

“It’s better to have dragons as allies instead of as enemies,” Bryden says and that’s it in simple terms. And she also doubts many people here care, but she’s heard the rumors that the woman stopped to free an army of slaves with her dragons, and Robb likes that.

She asks if anyone has anyone has any protests, and no one does. “We’ll send out ravens,” she says. “Many of them, in case one or two get shot down. I want the note written plainly—if the Lannisters intercept, I want them knowing what’s coming and I want them scared. And if they don’t find a raven, they’ll know soon anyway.”

“How?”

As she turns to take Arya out, she answers, “Because I’m going to make Jamie Lannister tell them for me.”

The room is silent as a grave when the door shuts behind the last stragglers of her family.

 

 

It takes a lot of frighten Jamie, but Robyn Stark is an uncannily remarkable woman. And now his family had both her parents killed.

When she crouches in front of him, they’re eye to eye and her beast is taller than she is like this. “I’m letting you go, as unharmed as you’ve always been,” she tells him and even Cersei smiled more as a newlywed than she does. “You’ll have guards all the way to King’s Landing, but not a single golden hair on that pretty boy head of yours will be cut unless you try something first. In return, you have to deliver a message for me.”

Earlier in the war, he might have cared, but he’s prepared to go home. “I’ll try to remember,” he says.

She smiles and the sight of it is sharp. “First,” she says, “you’re going to your sister and you’re going to tell her that in return for you, she has to send Sansa to me. They’ve had her long enough. You’re also going to tell her that the Starks are not like you and when we invade—because yes, that will happen—Myrcella and Tommen will not be harmed, no matter what happens.

“Second,” she continues, “you’re to find your bastard son, the King, and tell him that he has a new challenger to the throne because Daenerys Targaryen is crossing the Narrow Sea. Then, finally, you’re going to find your father. You’re going to find him and tell him that I didn’t appreciate his wedding present and he’s going to regret that threefold. You’re going to remind him that I kept my promise to the litter the south with Lannister dead. And then I want you to stand there as he imagines that if I can keep my promise about an _army_ , there’s little chance I won’t be able to keep one for a single family.”

“That’s an awful lot, little wolf,” Jamie answers and tries not to think about how he said three victories did not make her a conqueror, but here she is not a year later steadily inching towards the capital with an additional annexed land at her back. “And what happens should I forget?”

From her pocket she removes a sealed, rolled up letter. “You won’t forget,” she says, and stands. “Brienne, Bryden, he’s all yours.”

Something tells him he’s going to regret this. Even if these Northerners don’t harm him, he can’t say the same for his own family.

 

 

They don’t stay in the Twins and Brienne and Bryden will have to meet with them halfway on their way back with Sansa. For Catelyn, they hold a Tully funeral, and even though she has blood family here, Robb insists that Theon shoots the arrow. Unlike with Lord Edmure, it lights on his first try.

As they leave, an entire group of mourning men at their backs, Arya tells them her story. “We were at Harrenhal,”  Robb says and overnight something around the corners of her mouth has hardened. “I suppose we got there not long after you left.”

“After we get Sansa back,” Arya asks, “are we going back to Winterfell or continuing forward?”

Theon tries to catch Robb’s eye, but she’s focusing her sight on only looking forward. “We’re continuing to march on King’s Landing,” he answers for her. “We’ve got a war to win, still, Arya. If you and Sansa want to—”

“I want to stay.”

Instead of riding her own horse, Arya shares with Robb, even though that can’t possibly be comfortable for either of them. Earlier they sent a raven to Winterfell that was stained with tears. “What’s the name of the man who killed Father?” she asks and Arya says his name was Ser Ilyn Payne. “Thank you.”

Arya says, “Are you going to kill him?”

“If your sister doesn’t get to him, I’ll put an arrow through his eye myself,” Theon promises and it’s horrible how she smiles. A year and a half ago, death would never make either of them happy like this. “We’ve got a long list of names, Robb.”

“Joffrey, Cersei, and Tywin are the most important,” she says and he always pictured the day after their wedding to be spent lounging around in bed under the furs, sharing something to eat and calling her Lady Greyjoy, though that would not be their House name. He'd just needed to need hear it once, before all this made it unimportant. “Arya, do you know any ways in or out of King’s Landing that aren’t the main gate?”

Taking the Twins means they have ships now, but not enough for a fleet and he’s the only one who has any idea how to sail. And even then, it’s something he learned when he eight and never studied again. “I was chasing a cat once and got caught in one of the lower rooms of the Red Keep,” Arya answers, “and I found a tunnel that let out right outside the city walls.”

Robb finally takes her eyes off the road ahead to look at him. “A tunnel that leads straight into the Red Keep,” she says. “How big was it?”

“Big enough to walk in, if that’s what you mean.”

As she tilts her head down to kiss the top of Arya’s head, he says, “I think we just found our way to the King and Queen Regent.”

“If we get Daenerys Targaryen and her ships,” Robb says, “we could win this war. We could go home.”

Catelyn is dead, but they aren’t. If anything, it’s just made them angrier and Tywin Lannister made a great misjudge of character.

 

 

Arriving at Winterfell with a wildling party at his back isn’t the way Jon ever wanted to spend an afternoon, but to a certain measure of luck, there’s already a wildling girl here and everyone likes her quite a bit and some of those with him even know her. This probably makes him the first deserter of the Night’s Watch to ever get away without a scrap of consequence, either, after he explains to Maester Luwin and Bran the situation of the Wight Walkers and how Halfhand essentially told him to do this anyway. His little brother barely pays attention, just holds on to him with all his strength while Jon carries him around, like he’s afraid to let go.

The rest of the family has been gone for a very long time.

A week in, Orell declared Bran a warg, too, and started explaining to him what that meant and even though Jon hates the man, he lets him because it makes his little brother happy. Most of Winterfell are just relieved to see they have some form of defense, regardless of who it comes from, and everyone is addressing him as Prince Jon instead of Lord, which Ygritte finds even funnier. Maester Luwin shakes his head in exasperation every time he sees them.

In that very short time, he’s almost happy himself, with his two little brothers, his home, and Ygritte at his side, but then the letter comes. Jon knows it’s too early for it to be a reply to his own telling his sister he’s back and he unfurls the small thing with shaking hands. It reads, in Theon’s handwriting,

_Maester Luwin, Catelyn is dead. The Lannisters had her commissioned to be killed at our wedding. We have Arya. – Theon_

He holds Bran and Rickon while they cry and Maester Luwin stands in the corner of the room solemnly, hands tucked in front of him. Later Ygritte asks, “How are you not going south to kill the ones who did this? Is it because it’s against your _laws?_ ”

“I have to trust my sister will do it,” he answers, staring outside the window to the yard he played in for years with Robb and later Theon while Mother and Father watched and talked whatever affairs were important that day. “I told you on the Wall—all this is the Starks'. I can’t leave it again while she’s already gone. She’s got Arya now, but Sansa’s still in King’s Landing.”

Down below, Rickon shows Giantsbane how to play fetch with Shaggydog. For as different as they are, and as they vicious as they like to make themselves seem, the wildlings are just people same as them. He left friends back at Castle Black, good friends too, but apparently being a traitor to protect your home is a bloodline. “I’m sorry about your mother, Jon Stark,” Ygritte says and touches his shoulder. It’s in a kinder tone than any he’s heard her use before.

He wonders where Sam is, and Pyp, and Grenn are, and if any of them are still alive. “I am too,” he says, putting his hand over hers. “I really am, too.”

 

 

“You staged an assassination at her _wedding?_ ” Cersei says, incredulous, when Jamie returns and Sansa packs to leave because as much as everyone else hates it, Tyrion said that as his bride-to-be, he should be allowed to make the decision and this was a fair trade, so he broke off the engagement and saw her sent home safely. A wedding with two Starks and a Greyjoy raised by Ned Stark and Father thought that plan would work?

Not that she’ll say that, of course. He already has the same look on his face he would get when they were children and one of them spoke out of turn. “The girl is moving closer by the day and still hasn’t lost a battle,” he answers, tucking his hands behind his back. “Now we hear she’s allied herself with that Targaryen. That girl hadn’t been a threat until now. Jamie, did her mother’s death at least break her spirit?”

“Ah, no, actually,” Jamie says and Cersei, despite the issues at hand, is relieved to have her brother back and that Robyn Stark, for some reason, specifically said Myrcella and Tommen would not be harmed. This war is steadily making it look as though they may be on the losing side. “It made her angry and gave her the Twins and its army.”

With his jaw tightening, Father says, “If she plans to attack from the ground, we will come at her army from behind. If the Targaryen decides to attack from the sea, have the wildfire prepared. Dragons may be immune to fire, but humans aren’t, and I doubt she heard of Tyrion’s little trick against Stannis.”

This won’t end well. Cersei doesn’t need to be a military genius like her father to know this. Not when one of their enemies has dragons. “I’ll go make sure Sansa leaves without incident,” she says, standing. “Catelyn Stark died and Robyn allied with the last Targaryen. If we kill her sister, she might find a way to ally with the wildlings at this rate.”

Neither Father nor Jamie say anything when she leaves, both going on to discuss what little he gleaned from his time as their prisoner. At one point she’d pitied this girl queen, thought the lack of cock between her legs meant no one would respect her. Now Cersei sees she should have pushed Robyn out the window, too, and unlike her brother, made sure she was dead.

 

 

The moment the raven arrives, Robb runs to find her husband and sister. Conveniently enough, they’re together, and Theon’s showing Arya how to properly use a bow in the style of the Iron Islands. “It came from Winterfell,” she says. “From Jon.”

Arya nearly tears the paper in half getting it out of her hands. “Wildlings?” she says, looking from the paper to Robb. “Wight Walkers are real and he’s protecting Winterfell from them with a bunch of wildlings?”

“Well, we’re aligning ourselves with the last Targaryen,” Theon points out. “Maybe the North froze out our common sense.”

Considering the speed at which they got this and how there’s no mention of her, it’s doubtful this was sent after Jon learned of what happened to Mother. “He abandoned his post for this,” Robb says. “Something might be wrong at the Wall for him to betray the Night’s Watch and come home. Make sure news of the Wight Walkers doesn’t spread through to the men. It’s the last worry they need right now.”

Not only does Arya promise to keep her mouth shut, but she also rips the paper up into little shreds until the drift down to the ground like a small patch of snow. “We’ve got Jon in the North now,” Theon says, leaning on his bow, “and if the Targaryen allegiance works out, we can ask for some help with her dragons. The North will be safe, Robb. _Winterfell_ will be safe.”

She nods because he’s right before kissing his cheek. “I’m going to send a raven in reply,” she tells them. “He should know I got his.”

By now he should know Mother is dead, too, as well as Bran and Rickon. Even without remains, Winterfell will do as it did when Father died, and ring its bells in mourning.

 

 

Daenerys is speaking with Grey Worm when Jorah finds her with the raven that somehow managed to cross the Narrow Sea. “You have your Westeros allies, Khaleesi,” he says as he gives her the letter. “It looks as though Ser Barristan was right. Robyn Stark wants you to take the Iron Throne.”

A whole army waiting for her across the water to allow her passage into the country. Daenerys feels like she’s holding a dream. “Can we trust her?” she asks. “Not Ser Barristan’s opinion, but yours.”

“If what Ser Barristan says is true, then the North wants to become its own country,” he answers. “There’s no reason Lady Stark would have to betray you if you grant her that. You won’t have all of Westeros, but you’ll have most of it.”

She writes a letter saying their armies will meet as allies in two months’ time outside King’s Landing. They send the same message with every raven that comes over the next three days.

 

 

Though Sansa had imagined being reunited with her family many times, usually her mother was there and it involved either Winterfell or being saved at King’s Landing where she finally got to watch Joffrey and Cersei get what they deserve. She hadn’t expected it to be in the Riverlands with both her sisters dressed as boys and for the three of them to join together in front of a crowd of Northern bannermen and cry. After being publically humiliated for so long, Sansa doesn’t mind these tears of joy; evidently neither do Arya or Robb.

That night, the camp holds a celebration for her return, complete with dancing and music and all other things she thinks her sister is probably more likely to avoid. Robb and Theon are finally married, though they don’t speak of it because that’s the day that Mother died. “Don’t worry,” she says later when the four of them are in the tent Sansa and Arya will share, “after we take King’s Landing, the Lannisters will never hurt anyone again.”

She falls asleep that night curled up with Arya like when they were children and dreams of Joffrey dead with Lady’s teeth at his throat.

 

 

Originally, they were going to split their army and take or at least Casterly Rock and another location at the same time in order keep Tywin Lannister’s army separated. Now they have time to take the Lannisters’ home and still make it back to meet with Queen Daenerys if they’re quick about it. And with the enemy spies weeded out at the Twins and having the Riverlands now as their own territory, it isn’t hard to come up with a plan. Having the Mountain as their strategic opponent only makes it easier.

Casterly Rock has high walls, but it has a forest running right up to its edge, which is not a particularly practical design. She takes her men deep into the woods and away from the roads, leaving their horses behind and keeping hidden. They come in the night, which they’re custom too, and the fires burning beyond the walls throw the guards in a sharp relief that makes it easy for her archers to shoot down from their cover behind the trees.

By the time the city is at arms, she and her men are already in, or entering, and have control of the outermost wall. The soldiers are tired and confused, some even drunk, with all the women, children, and men who have no business fighting tucked inside their homes. It’s the soldiers they want, so it’s the soldiers they face, and in the end, it takes Theon with an arrow to first to the leg and then to the eye to bring down the Mountain. They take the vaguely important Lannisters keeping watch over Casterly Rock and stick them in their own dungeon. The whole place is decorated with lions and they have two hundred of their own dead, again.

“We took their home in one night, Theon,” she says as they leave from out the main gates at noon come the next day because she wants to get out before reinforcements arrive. They put the family Maester in charge for now, as she doesn’t actually want Lannisport, there’s no advantage to having it outside of taking their enemy’s home, and the Lannisters know how to attack it better than they know how to defend it. “If we were able to take Casterly Rock in one night, how many men do you think Tywin has in King’s Landing?”

Any soldiers left alive were locked in the dungeons and Lord Umber hid all the keys in various places throughout the castle so the Maester wouldn’t be able to free them all the moment they left. For the most part, though, the knights and soldiers in Casterly Rock are all dead now and the streets are Lannister red. The color fits them nice enough.

Theon glances behind him, up to the castle that stretches high up above the trees and walls. “Enough to make us scared,” he answers, and she hates that he’s probably right.

 

 

Removing so many men from Casterly Rock first for Jamie’s army a year ago, which Robyn Stark decimated, and then for the forces at Harrenhal, which she had yet to face, was simply asking for trouble. Tyrion knew that, Father knew that, but apparently he hadn’t expected her to know how few soldiers were acting as guards. And now, through continuing her tradition of after dark attacks, she took the city in a single night.

And then left. “She won’t attack it again,” Jamie says after Father and Joffrey finish yelling at Tyrion for doing what’s moral and returning Sansa to her family in a fair trade. “She never left me with one of her bannermen. She certainly won’t leave Casterly Rock with one, especially not after that wonderful wedding present you gave her.”

According to Jamie, he could hear the screams from the room he was locked in halfway across the Twin’s fortress. “We’ve lost both Clegane brothers now, too,” Tyrion says and though he never held any love for either one, this is hard to grasp.

“How bad was the damage?” Cersei asks.

“Four thousand dead or thrown in the dungeons,” Father answers. “The armories, training grounds, and barracks put to torch. The cleaning expense alone it will take to scrub the blood from the streets is almost more than it’s worth.”

Joffrey turns to Tyrion and says again, “This is your fault. If we still had Sansa, we could have Robyn Stark’s head on a spike by now.”

The idiot boy knows nothing warfare. Both his siblings maybe reprehensible people, but they aren’t stupid; Joffrey is definitely Jamie’s and yet still as Robert’s temperament. “I would not go quite that far, nephew.”

“You were there a long time, Jamie,” Father says, ignoring both of them. “Do you have even the slightest idea what she will next?”

It’s been a very long time since Tyrion heard his father ask for advice on what an adversary is planning. Well played, Robyn Stark, well played. 

“To join the Targaryen girl and attack King’s Landing, I suspect,” Jamie says. “If you want Joffrey married, best be quick about it.”

Cersei says, “Cancel it. I know the way a woman’s mind works; you destroyed her wedding, so she’ll want to destroy ours.”

When Father turns the full intensity of his glare to her, Tyrion almost pities her. He’s spoken to the Stark girl, though not for long, and knows Sansa and Jon relatively well. Cersei is right, or close enough to it. “We are Lannisters,” Father tells her. “We do not cancel just because a little wolf thinks she can attack a lion. The wedding will be held during the day, not night as intended. Double the guard within the Red Keep and the archers patrolling the walls. The King’s Guard will be stationed outside the castle and a ship of wildfire again at sea. We will make them regret the day they ever even thought of taking Casterly Rock.”

“Once we kill the Starks here in King’s Landing, I’m sending the army north to Winterfell,” Joffrey adds, violent as always. “I want them all dead.”

“Don’t worry,” Father says, patting his grandson on his shoulder, “we will show her army no mercy and then we march north and kill them all.”

No, this will not end well, Tyrion thinks. This will not end well at all.

 

 

It takes two months for Daenerys Targaryen to come to Westeros, but when she does, she comes with ten thousand men, two thousand innocent people, a Northerner whose name sounds suspiciously familiar, and an introduction that includes a lot of fancy titles.

Oh, and dragons. Robb quite likes everything about this woman, but as of now the dragons are her favorite, closely followed by the ships.

Unlike Queen Daenerys, she doesn’t need anyone else to introduce her. “Robyn of House Stark, the Queen in the North,” she says after the formalities are over, trying not to look at the dragons in the off chance she appears afraid instead of curious. Though, to be fair, she’s not too fond of the teeth and how close they are to her husband’s head. “This is Theon, King in the North, and then my younger sisters Princesses Sansa and Arya.” Calling them princesses is something she’s finally gotten used to. “You want the Iron Throne, which is excellent, because we want to help you get the Iron Throne.”

Raising her eyebrow, the other woman says, “And why do you want to help _me_ retake the Seven Kingdoms?”

“I want my people safe and they chose me as their Queen,” she answers, “but that doesn’t mean I’ll forsake the people of Westeros. You delayed coming here to take Yunkai in order to save slaves. You’re better than any Lannister or Baratheon ever was.”

Ser Barristan, who keeps sending uncomfortable glances at Sansa and Arya, says, “Is is true, what your father said about King Joffrey?”

“If you’re referring to his parentage,” Theon says, “then yes, his father is Jamie Lannister, not Robert Baratheon. The same goes for Myrcella and Tommen.” He looks back at Queen Daenerys and adds, “We annexed the Riverlands as well. It’s where the Starks’ mother was born.”

“All you want in return for helping me take back my home is your land?” She must be used to hard bargains to be surprised at this. Then again, Robb’s never seen anyone with fair negotiations before, either, and by this point she’s near desperate.

“Well, and one more thing,” Robyn says. “The King, Queen Regent, and Tywin Lannister—they’re ours.”

With a smile, Queen Daenerys stands and hopefully this agreement won’t result in a slit throat or rolling head. “After we take King’s Landing and I regain my seat on the Iron Throne,” she says, “the kingdoms of Westeros and the North will be allies in trade and force as two separate, independent nations. Do you accept these terms, Queen Robyn?”

“We accept,” Robb answers and like this, the Lannisters have already lost the war.

 

 

“This is King’s Landing and all the surrounding area,” King Theon says when he rolls the map out on the table. “The Royal Wedding is to take place a week from now. As the Lannisters tried to have us killed at our own wedding, that’s probably when they expect us to attack.”

Both Ser Jorah and Ser Barristan warned her that Westeros was different, but Daenerys wasn’t expecting to find exactly _how_ different it is. “Which is why that’s exactly when we’re going to attack,” Queen Robyn continues. “Arya told us she accidently found a series of tunnels that led right into the Red Keep from the outside. There’s an outcrop not far away from the Mud Gate. Any arrows shot could only hit the closest line to the edge of the wall, but it will work as enough of a distraction to cause the Lannisters to think your ships are attacking from the same gate.”

“But the Mud Gate is the weakest,” Ser Jorah says. “It would be easiest for our ships to attack from there.”

Earlier Princess Sansa explained about Stannis Baratheon’s attempted siege and the incident with the wildfire, but the dragons could take care of that easily enough before a ship were to hit her army. After all, just because Daenerys and her children are immune does not mean her men are. “The strongest gate is the one they’ll least expect us to attack,” she says, looking over the map. “Which is that?”

Queen Robyn places her finger on the end opposite the Mud Gate. “This one,” she answers. “The main, the entrance. The guard will be heavy, but as it’s the day of the royal wedding, there is a chance it will be open. Predicting where the ship of wildfire might be located is tricky, though if your dragons explode it close enough to the shore, it might just destroy part of the wall in the process.”

“Will that not ignite the city?”

“It will ignite the shoreline and at least char the stone. If we light the city on fire, then we’ve made a terrible mistake.”

She says, “If the risk seems to high, wait until it’s further out to sea. The Mud Gate’s door is wooden. Thick wood, but still wood. Ground forces can break through there while you distract from the other end.”

“And if the army circles behind you?” Ser Jorah says, rearranging the pieces.

Queen Robyn drums her fingers on her table and bites her bottom lip, which gives Daenerys the feeling that the the two of them are only coming up with at least half these plans as they speak. “We can set our archers on the outcrop in a ring,” her husband says. “There are two ways that an army can come at ours from behind and if we start killing them with arrows from above, they’ll start screaming. The vanguard will hear and the forces will lose their surprise advantage.”

Wood. Wood is no barrier, even if she is on the other side of the city. “I can have one of my dragons burn away the entrance. Command your men to stay away until the fire dies down,” Daenerys tells them. “What will you do from inside the city?”

“Interrupt the wedding before it’s finished,” the other woman answers. “We’ll be against the King’s Guard, not normal soldiers, but if we a handful of our best fighters, we can do it. If we can capture Jamie Lannister and take Casterly Rock, we can should be able survive some knights in fancy armor. We’re going to have to enter the tunnel at night and wait until dawn to under the Red Keep.”

“I can offer you any Unsullied soldiers you need,” Daenerys says because she doubts many will be able to follow them into a tunnel a little girl found.

King Theon agrees and thanks her and Queen Robyn says, “Tell them to kill no one without a golden cloak. If someone attacks, subdue them, but keep them alive. They must leave the Lannisters to us and don’t kill Jamie Lannister, either.”

“Robb, what—”

“I’m not going to leave Myrcella and Tommen parentless if I don’t have to,” she says. “Queen Daenerys as the new ruler of Westeros can decide what to with him. Cersei, Joffrey, and Tywin are the ones we want. Though I wouldn’t be particularly adverse to killing Ilyn Payne, either.”

The Unsullied will obey to her, she knows that. And as much as she would like to burn Tywin Lannister herself for giving the order slay her whole family, she’s heard enough from to gather he not only paid to have Catelyn Stark killed at the King and Queen’s wedding, but his family held Princess Sansa captive for a year, which sent Princess Arya into hiding. If they want the Lannisters’ deaths for themselves, they can take it. “If we’re careful,” Daenerys says, looking at the map with all its figurines, something she never used on the other side of the Narrow Sea but her allies do things very differently, “I could have what’s rightfully mine before the month is through.”

“If we’re careful,” repeats Queen Robyn with a smile so small it’s barely real, “my men and family can go home.”

For the first time, Daenerys is breathing in the air of her homeland and has its soil under the soles of her boots. But to the Starks, this isn’t home and she never wants anyone to have that sense of landlessness she lived with all her life. So she’ll take her Iron Throne and then she’ll send them back to the North where they belong.

 

 

They take the tunnel in the night and it’s much more cramped than Arya said it would be for just about everyone but Robb. They wait there in darkness for the few hours until daybreak, and Theon hooks his ankle around hers. Neither have ever seen the capital before, let alone been inside the Red Keep, and now they’re about to invade it. This won’t be like Casterly Rock, which had barely been protected at all and easy to take; this was going to be hard and the causalities it will take more is than he likes to think about. But this is for the freedom of the North and the freedom of Westeros, too, in a way, so it’s worth it.

Or at least it feels good telling himself that.

When the sun rises, light peaking through the tunnel entrance, Robb lifts her head from his shoulder. “They’ll ring the bells when Margaery Tyrell begins to walk,” she says, and pulls herself up so she’s standing. “That’s a clear enough signal.”

The two of them don’t need to hunch over, but the same can’t be said for some of the others. According to Sansa, they’re about halfway from the room the wedding will take place in and any guards they encounter along the way will most likely die in undesirable circumstances. Theon doesn’t like sneaking around, but at least they didn’t pay their way into this.

They kill the two knights standing guard when they come to investigate the source of the noise and Grey Wolf tears the throat out of one while Theon shoots the other.

“For Lady Catelyn,” he hears Lord Mallister mumble under his breath as two other Northerners drag the bodies into the shadowed corners.

 

 

Outside the walls of the city are on fire from the burning Mud Gate and further down from the wildfire explosion. Her men and Queen Daenerys’ men flood King’s Landing with dragons flying over head and arrows raining from outcrops and it’s all exactly as Tywin Lannister must have predicted, to an extent, if the way his defenses are set up is in indication, but now she has the man restrained by Lord Umber with her sword positioned to between his eyes and Theon has an arrow focused on Joffrey’s face, which also renders Cersei essentially useless. Robb ordered Margaery and Loras Tyrell to remove Tommen and Myrcella if they didn’t want to be harmed, which the Queen Regent ordered them to do as well (if she has one redeeming quality, it is that she really does love her children), and dead knights lie in a circle around her, staining the floor red.

“You’ve lost this war, Lord Tywin,” she says, breathing still heavy from the battle. “Now choose the manner of your death: in here, or out there where the crowd can see you? Either way, I don’t need someone else to do my killing for me.”

From behind her, Joffrey screams, “You can’t do this! I am your _King_!”

Tywin’s eyes bore down into hers and she doesn’t care how it looks to everyone else here that she’s smiling. She and her men have been waiting too long for this moment. “You’ve never been my King, Lord Lannister,” she says before telling the men, “Lead Lord Joffrey and Lady Cersei away for safekeeping. This one here still has to decide.”

In the end, Tywin Lannister decides to die fighting, though he probably does so knowing he has no chance of winning. He nearly gets Lord Umber on the ground from a well place elbow to the gut, but before he can do much else, Robb shoves her sword forward and down, stabbing through his neck, which isn’t beheading, but near enough to it. They can put his head of a spike or Daenerys’ dragons can burn him to ash, she doesn’t care. He lies there, gasping for breath as Lord Umber stands, and it’s only a matter of moments before he finally dies.

Outside, she hears people cheering, jeering for Joffrey and Cersei’s heads even when the city itself is at war. Queen Daenerys’ dragons screech and roar. Somewhere beyond the walls, safe and alive, are Sansa and Arya.

Robb still has two promises to keep.

 

 

As much as Queen Robyn wants Cersei dead, she has no ill feeling towards Myrcella or Tommen and gave the woman time to say goodbye before taking of her and her son’s heads not half a day later. Princesses Sansa and Arya were not far away even if they were not involved in the battle itself and to give the older one some peace of mind, perhaps, one of the Northerners were sent with horses to fetch the girls. Now they all form a line with the Lannisters in between the Starks—or Greyjoys, she doesn’t know, as they were rather vague on that matter. By Queen Robyn’s request, Daenerys allows the Northerners to introduce her, even though she would much rather have one of her own do the honors.

Once the crowd is gathered, cheering despite the battle that took place literally within their homes, the other woman calls out, “Many of you only recognize me by a name dirtied with the word traitor. I am Robyn of House Stark, daughter of Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn, and Queen in the North. The North is my home and now an independent country and any Northerners here are free to return with me when I journey back to Winterfell. I have no intention of taking the Iron Throne for myself, but you have suffered too long under the rule of Cersei Lannister and Joffrey Baratheon, the false King. Today is the day you will be free of it!”

People shout insults that mingle together and Daenerys’ hears the occasional “Queen in the North!” cried out from what must be a Northerner who was caught in city when the war began. Cersei Lannister bends her head with grace, contempt written on her face even after it rolls. Her son is very different—he struggles and spits and yells about traitors and treason, but his head is cut just as easily. The cheering of the crowd rises to a defending level and more than person appears to be crying with joy.

Many look to Sansa, whose face is as impassive as her older sister’s and brother by law’s, and they’re the ones that cry the hardest.

“In the wake of this new day,” Queen Robyn shouts over the crowd, “give welcome to your new Queen and ruler, Daenerys of House Targaryen, the Mother of Dragons, and rightful heir to the Iron Throne!”

Her dragons fly around the castle roofs and she steps forward, looking to Queen Robyn who gives her the barest of nods. “Your past Kings have been cruel and dealt you harm while they played their games for power,” she says because she knows her name may not be well received. “I swear on the Last Dragon that as Queen of Westeros that there will be no more games. You are my people and as you are mine, I am yours.”

The crowd, once again, cheers, and the Starks all look at her as if she’s done something right. She truly hopes she has.

 

 

Some time between Daenerys being declared Queen of Westeros and the week later that all the Northerners finish gathering their things to return home, Theon’s twenty-third name day passes without him noticing. He doesn’t feel twenty-three. In a few weeks, Robb will be nineteen and he knows she feels much older than eighteen, too. This war has been hard on them all and even though Queen Daenerys says they can stay longer if they wish for some time to rest, all of them are just too desperate to reach home before the snows begin piling too high.

They leave the day after the official coronation, where the Queen is able to lend Robb a dress that fits because she’s only a little smaller in height and not at all in stature after this war. Sansa doesn’t ask what happened to the wedding dress she helped design; Theon suspects Arya told her, but he can’t know for certain as no one ever brings it up.

When they finally leave, the weather in the south is still too warm for even furs. Winter is coming, but it’s coming slow and he knows they won’t miss the cold for long. “We’re allies,” Queen Daenerys says as they ready their horses. “If you need my dragons to deal with the Wight Walkers, send a raven and I will help.”

“The south cannot handle winter the way the North can,” Robb answers. “If you and your people are ever in need assistance, please do the same.”

Queen Daenerys promised and, exhausted and still sore from battle a week later, they go. It’s a month’s ride and a hard one, but they’re going home.

Finally, they’re going home.

 

 

“Robb! Theon! Sansa! Arya!”

“Jon! Bran! Rickon!”

The guards on the wall announced a returning party with Northern banners and Jon abandoned his post as Lord of Winterfell mid-conversation with a man whose roof is leaking when he heard. He delayed just long enough to pick up Bran before running outside, trusting Maester Luwin to get Rickon. Everyone else left in Winterfell is gathered too, but they part when he passes and there are his sisters and Theon, all tired and too thin, but perfect and _breathtakingly_ alive.

Robb reaches him first, arms circling him and Bran both with her arms, and Rickon grabs onto her waist. Theon, Arya, and Sansa join the embrace moments after and they’re surrounded by hardened soldiers, the children and elderly of Winterfell, and the group of wildlings who just…never left, and still cry without shame. When he saw them last, they’d all just been children, but he doesn’t feel so much like a child now and he doubts they do, either.

Of course, Theon removes himself first and wipes his eyes as if the only problem is the cold. Then Robb pulls away, but not actually out of his arms, and runs her hand through his hair in a movement that’s so like Mother that it’s heartbreaking. “Oh, Jon,” she says, and she’s smiling through her tears, “Bran, Rickon—I thought to never see you again.”

“I’ve told you before,” he answers, “we Starks are hard to kill.”

They laugh, all of them, because it’s horrible and untrue, and the bout is short and when it’s over, Bran asks, “Are you and Theon really King and Queen now?”

“Yes, they are,” Sansa says for her. “Robb and Theon, King and Queen in the North.”

The people of Winterfell and the North drop into a bow and swear fealty right there. Robb laughs again and Theon takes her hand. “We did it,” she says, as if she still can’t believe it. “We’re free.”

A few months ago Jon told Ygritte he’d have to trust his sister to do this for him. He never doubted for a moment that she would.

 

 

They light a fire in Winterfell’s Square on the day winter first begins, snow falling gently from the sky but will pick up by nightfall, and Jon returns from leading every wildling but Ygritte (because he’s a hypocrite if there ever was one) to the old border between the Riverlands and the North before this all became her country. Robb lights the fire herself and watches the smoke twist high into the air, far, far above the walls. There’s no feast or anything of the like, as they need everything they have to ration through the winter.

All dancing and celebrating takes place outside, everyone draped in furs, as this may be the last time in a while where they can venture out so easily. “How long do you think this winter will last?” she asks Theon as they dance, carefully watching Jeyne Poole, who speaks animatedly with her sister and either doesn’t realize or tries to ignore the way Sansa only delicately smiles back. Arya is talking to Ygritte with Jon keeping an eye on Bran and Rickon and from their hand motions, Robb suspects they’re discussing bows and arrows.

“Everyone says long summers lead to longer winters,” Theon answers. “If it’s any more than seven years, things will be difficult for the North and at five Westeros will suffer.”

In seven years, she’ll be twenty-six, which is old for a first child. “Do you think we should try for an heir anyway?” she says and just a month ago she created a royal decree stating the eldest child, be it male or female, could be heir to any household in any profession; if she can do it, so can other women. Arya was absolutely thrilled, as this means she can now practice whatever she likes.

Children run around the Square, chasing each other or Summer or Shaggydog, since both Ghost and Grey Wind lie in the shadows and stare on disapprovingly. “We can try, Robb,” he says, watching the children too. “There’s no harm in it.”

People dance and music plays and snow comes down harder from a heavy grey sky.

This is home and winter has come, and the North is prepared for whatever may follow.


End file.
